Templo Mayor or My strangest trip through Mexico

Templo Mayor
I lived in Mexico for several years.  The diversity of its landscape and people are lost to most of us living in the US.  We see only those who struggled and were willing to take the great risk to better themselves in a land and culture alien and foreign to them, but beckoning with hope.  The United States is a wondrous trap in that way.  We don't always see Mexico at its best with these men and women, even as its people strive to bring the best out in themselves.  I have traveled now the depth and breadth of that nation, I have seen their hopes and dreams, their intial alienness to me is less alien than it once was and I can spot regional differences that make up a mosaic of a nation state whose people are different nations tied by a mythos that is often frayed by its poor leadership.  It is a nation whose people are to be admired, whose organization is to be pitied.  The strongest ties are familial and obedience to the patriarch, for either good or ill, this is powerful throughout that land.


Today I will speak of something that is in the mist of reality, a surreal thing that brings to my mind the question of what is real, and what is myth.  As Mormons we believe that there is no difference between the spirit and the flesh, that all things that exist have a spiritual origin and that origin exists forever changed only by the experience that we will upon ourselves.  While that view is known to us, it is sometimes disconcerting when it actually descends upon us from the unknown places.  For myself I cannot claim great spiritual insight, it would be hubris for me to do so, I am very much based on the reality of this life and its effects on me.  So I remain relatively blind to the corners of existence that hold surprising things that perturb the placid waters of my life.  Routine is comforting and safe, it also blinds us.


I had been working in Mexico for several years developing a routine that would suffice to my needs as I strove to develop a career in international business, using the Spanish I had developed from my time as a missionary combined with degree in economics.  It is not a easy life, this career development thing, but it is a living after all.  We lived on the coast in Mexico developing hotels and golf courses for the well heeled that would come into the nation and bring their much needed dollars and our lives were not difficult when compared to those living in our host land.  Once or twice a year I would take my four wheel drive Eddie Bauer Bronco II up the United States for a thorough inspection and bill of health by a certified US mechanic I knew and trusted (this kept the warrantee active).  That trip was done alone and lent itself to some wonderful adventures with people who became close if temporary friends.  Driving along those long thin two lane highways one is often pushed over to the side by 18 wheeler trucks madly hurtling freight to their destinations going in the opposite direction.  But the scenery, now that was something else it is desolate and beautiful in its isolation and empty hills.  Whether plush hills of the Sierra Madres or the extensive undulating ocotillo and palo verde hills along with the long stark empty beaches whose silence is only broken by crashing surf and windswept sand.  Those are views that I will always treasure.  On the road, appearing on either side were often empty smaller avenues that stretched off into the distance disappearing into hills for destinations unknown.  When I took these trips I had some leeway in time built into them so I could do what I loved to do when I traveled alone.  I would go on an "explore".  A small voyage of discovery to see what was "out there".  I am no Magellan, I am just curious.  


Most of the time such deviations would conclude by leading up to an isolated "rancho" somewhere that rarely encountered guests.  Some few small adobe buildings and a tienda with little else of note in the orange ground beyond the desert cactus, ocotillos and palo verdes.  Such a visit was a call for certain celebration by these hard working families attempting carve a life out of what is still a harsh wilderness.  They would gather together that evening for a small bonfire with talking, singing, someone would break out some goat meat for a barbecue and people would laugh, converse, and share stories of families and friends, with a heavy dose of gossip to spice up the conversation with the stranger.  I too contributed and sang as loudly and off key as I could, they would laugh and shake their head at my antics.  That was my entertainment for them.  More often than not I left a few dollars to help them along for the food they prepared and the company they gave me.  Years later I still smile at the memory of wonderful people whose love of life, tempered by a grim determination of survival found the time to bless a stranger with their happiness.

Deviations exist as learning experiences whereby we have the opportunity to experience something outside the routine.  In one of these trips I descended to a place that was different as I drifted up the North of Mexico.  I had been driving on a somewhat isolated stretch of road, bored of the music and time when a side road made itself known to me.  Turning right I kicked up the gravel  as I took an empty road and disappeared into the brush with little more than a cloud of desert dust to mark my passage.   The ocotillo and cactus ranged heavy on either side as I drove on towards the mountains with the morning sun continuing its hot torturous climb.  After the miles ranged underneath I began to wonder if maybe I needed to turn around and come back, it seemed to be a road that led nowhere.  Gradually the road became harder with more rock as it descended into an isolated valley with high walls on either side leading down a narrow stretch.  Down the center following the road was an arroyo, a dry river bed with not even the tantalizing temptation of water, but the road was more defined now, and there in the distance I saw some houses, even an old church that seemed to lord over the small pueblo.  A farming community to be sure.  That single road cut through the adobe town with an unusually large pile of white rocks on the opposite side that marked an end to the road.  It is rare to see the end of a road, usually we only see the beginnings, as they lead us from our front door into the world.  But endings?  Very rare, and in most of our lives, a surprise.  This was no exception.  Along this ending lay on either side some old destroyed adobe homes which had been left to erode to the elements along with some old wooden buildings in this dusty windswept town.   Nothing was more than a single story, except the church, its tower stood erect and tall at the entrance of the town with cracks on the wall and tower.  The reality of earth and gravity had not yet crushed this building of faith, I supposed its time would come too.  All of this seemed built around or toward that unusually large pile of bleached white stones piled up haphazardly.   People did live here, there was activity and movement even as the rising dust set motes in my eye.  I parked in front of a half collapsed building labeled "loncheria" for those who entertained the idea of being fed (being fed what?!?! is often a question I asked myself at some of these places).  I stepped out of my Bronco (one of only two or three vehicles in the entire town from what I could see), and climbed the wooden steps squinting my eyes for protection from dust and bright sun.


As I walked in, my hopes for a good meal while not dashed were somewhat shaken. Half of the building was weathered and wooden and half eroded adobe, as if they could not be bothered to continue hauling wood from some other place in order to finish the building.  The floor was a mixture of uneven clay tile and brick that remained permanently dusty.  The hiss of a propane burner could be heard from the back room while a small girl in ragged clothing carried out the futility of moving sand and dust from one corner to the other with the sparse brushes of an old broom.  The chairs and tables were made of that ubiquitous cheap hollowed out white plastic found in all parts of Mexico.  Chairs that could easily buckle and collapse as you leaned or put weight on the back legs reminded one to always sit up straight for fear of that sudden collapse.  The wooden portion looked older than old with its weathered shelves and walls that disappeared into the darkness that one experiences when the sun is overly bright outside that the far corner of the room offered no light to define its borders.  I took a seat in the semi darkness for the coolness it offered and carefully sat down.  An older girl of a similar nature came by and handed me a worn plastic menu offering the barest of staples.  At the bottom printed in bold, "sodas frios", caught my eye; something that suddenly made the accommodations much more appealing.  
"Unos tacos p'favor" I said. "Y dos gaseosas", My Spanish was of a South American variety and training.  After a questionable second, before I could clarify for  her, she understood and left to bring me my sodas.
They were very cold, and for me this was the saving grace of the whole town.  The warm container of bottled water in my car had long since lost its appeal to me beyond survival and here I was being offered what can only be described as nectar of the gods.  There was ice on the outside of the bottle, inside you could see that thin layer of ice crystals forming on the very top, creating a semi slushing frigidity.  As the liquid poured down my dry, parched throat, I gave thanks to the inventor of refrigeration that allowed it to exist even here in this empty place.  That feeling of the dust being washed away is, I think, one of the highlights of life.  I was partially finished with my drink when I heard a sound in the darkness...  A kind of dry raspy smacking of dry lips and a clucking tongue.   It came from somewhere in the darkness of the shadow, as my eyes adjusted, I saw an old man in patched and worn clothing staring at me.  He had white hair and a short white beard.  This old man had seen life, probably had embraced it, and like so many, had not been embraced in return.  He was poor, he was tired and the lines etching his face were deep.  Again the smacking of lips as he looked right into my eyes.  He wasn't quite asking for something to drink, he was no beggar, but it did not bother him to let me know that he wanted one.  As my eyes adjusted more to the shadow I saw how close he really was and his smile, was one more of a person judging than it was a petition.
I was young, full of brass, and stared back at him.  "Oye, viejo" I said in a slightly disrespectful tone. "Que quieres?" or "Old man, what do yo want?".  He acted neither shocked nor insulted.  
"Tengo sed" he rasped with a trace of a smile.
"No never mind" I thought.  He was thirsty and it looked like he could use it more than I could.  It wouldn't hurt to buy him one.  So I ordered another gaseosa for the old man.  It came out and without another word he drank it.  Not a sip either or even a strong draft, he chugged the entire soda down in one long draught.  That is pretty surprising, and he must have been pretty thirsty, no, bone dry would have been a more accurate word.  I ordered him another.  He repeated the same act, one long chug that would have made a frat boy proud.  I ordered a third, this time he took a strong swig, gave a long burp and exhaled as only a man who rarely knows, but appreciates those moments of complete satisfaction.  
"You know gringo" he said mimicking me with his own sardonic tone.  "I like you, you have a good heart.  He took another sip.  "I will tell you two stories.  You will not interrupt these stories but listen with our ears.  Agreed?"
I wasn't in a hurry and this small half empty dust bowl in the middle of a desolate valley offered little in the way of amusement.  The sound of lunch being prepared and the familiar smells of Mexican home cooking convinced me to carefully sit back and nod my head.  "Bueno Senor, a su servicio" 
"Gringo, you know of the Aztecs? And their sacrifices?"  He asked as he eyed me.  I had in fact been very interested in the Aztecs.  So I replied.
"An amazing people whose pyramids were adapted to the wholesale slaughter of victims to their hummingbird god Huitzilopochtli, it is rumored that in one religious ceremony they cut out the hearts of almost 30,000 to feed their god.  Using an obsidian knife they would cut underneath the sternum and then reach in and pull out the still beating heart and place it in the mouth of their god statue, all the while the man receiving this was conscious and aware.  Their temples are said to be rounded in order for the bodies to be rolled off rather than carried down.  Indeed their sacrifices were so numerous as to be so hated that when Cortez entered Tenochtitlan, he had almost 100,000 indian allies who also wanted the destruction of the Aztecs...."


"Gringo" he said with a touch of irritation "You are interrupting me.".  
I nodded my head and apologized.  He went on.

"Cortez and the traitorous Malinche led an army to the Aztec capitol and over time battles were fought and Cortes was driven away.  Even during the height of the fighting priests would snatch or capture any warrior they could, drag them to the top of the temple and tear the heart out.  Begging their warrior god to kill these invaders for them.  Fighting was everywhere in patios, terraces, along the roads as groups or forces surged in and out driving the conquistadores back, or being forced away by the conquistadores.  Two of the conquistadores found themselves at the base of one portion of the Templo Mayor.  The northwest, and there were only a few Aztecs of noble birth standing guard.  They were not fighting or even looking outward towards the battles, their gaze and guard were focused deep into a narrow opening peering intently with their long tepoztopili in one hand along with a maquahitl in the other.  The tepoztopili is a long seven foot spear and the maquahitl a sword with razor sharp obsidian edges.  The maquahitl was powerful enough to decapitate a man in one fell swoop.  With their swords they came up behind these distracted nobles and thrust deep and true killing all three before any could react.  Such narrow openings were not unknown to the Spanish, since they often led to secret passages.  The small opening meant only one thing to these men "Aztec gold".  But the entrance was slight and very dark.  They released the straps of their cascadas and breast plates and dropped them in a pile near the entrance in order  to fit inside this cramped opening, then with the lust of gold in their eyes they were enveloped into the darkness of the passage.

The passage itself was narrow and both men were forced to walk in a stooped sideways motion, it would zig one way and zag another.  There was no light, there was no torch for them to carry and the walls were one moment smooth and another disconcertingly rough hewn, as if not more than piled rocks, then smooth again.No light was found and the sides grew closer and closer until both men were almost wedged in.  Was this some cruel joke with a guarded walkway that led nowhere?  A last turn with jagged stone pressing on their cheeks showed them a light.
"Joven" the man said to me as he pulled me out of his story.  "With all those sacrifices, why weren't the temples red with blood?"

"How do you know they weren't?" I asked.

"Read what they wrote" he replied 

I had read Bernal Diaz Castillo's "The Conquest of New Spain" and one of the things he mentioned was the alabaster whiteness of the temple of the sun.  The old man surprised me, not many were as well read as that, I would be surprised even more later.

"So where did the blood go?" he asked.  I shrugged and indicated with a wave for him to continue with his story.  Just then a little girl brought some appetizers or tapas were brought out and I offered the old man a bite, but his face went back to the intensity as he thought back.  He wasn't interested in food right now, the sharing of what he knew was his priority and food, even for this man who could use it, became secondary.

The light beckoned, but the path had grown slender and almost impossible to maneuver.  Conquistadores did not conquer by not taking chances.  They expelled the air from their lungs, with nothing left and pushed/scraped their way to the soft light.  

What they saw, shocked them utterly.  These were hardened men, not some caballero of old money, they had been mercenaries and their origins were Extremadura or "the hard land" that had given life to Cortez and Pizarro.  But nothing they had seen or done ever prepared them for this.  The light was faint but their time in the darkness had made their eyes sensitive to what was there.  While not as high as a cathedral, the roof was high, and the light was from some small gaps in the stone that allowed for some faint beams to pass.  A stone gutter from the top made its way down the sides and through those gaps came a dark crimson liquid, not in any regular way, but in spurts first fast and then dripping slowly.  The gutter would catch it and send it on its way down to a trough sitting far below.  That however wasn't the shock.  It was the being inside.  It was bent over the trough, its head drinking in the liquid when it became aware of the two men.  It stood up and turned.  A mixture of ashen whiteness, as if it had never seen light, and markings on its face and upper torso like the scales of a snake.  No hair was upon its head, the eyes were wide and open, the head bore the grotesque cranial deformation that was long and oblong something the Mayans sometimes had for royalty.  The teeth were filed into triangular daggers, even in this darkened cursed place one could see them flash.  From waist down he appeared as any man, but the torso, the chest and arms were what only could be called monstrous in their mass.  Nor did he walk, it was more of a swinging shuffle with the great arms, like an apes, swinging loosely at his side.  He smiled, but there was no humor in him.  It was as if being human was the mask that was a living parody which covered something past feeling of any humanity. 

It seemed to drag itself towards the first man, both conquistadores still stared in shock at the spectacle, as their minds attempted to make sense of what it was they saw before them.  It grabbed the nearest one and with almost casual ease snapped the neck of the man and drove its dagger like teeth into the neck.  As blood spurt out, the second man could hear the sickening chugging of the beast swallowing the gory discharge.  This saved his life.  He was shocked into action and fled to the exit behind him.  But it was an impossibly thin crack and he could not force his way in.  Meanwhile the thing was finishing up, partially sated and looked to the man with the same smile and slowly made his way forward.  No hurry, no speed.  There was no concern for escape.  The food was trapped.  
The man was desperate, "if he could enter, he must be able to leave", his mind raced as he banged himself against the very thin opening.  His thought of escape seemed almost helpless, he was prepared to pray to his God for the last time, and with that moment came calmness.  His mind cleared and he knew, or rather remembered, and in that moment he exhaled sharply and drove himself with all his strength into that incredibly thin fissure.  The impact almost made him lose consciousness but he was in and pushing deeper.  Suddenly the thing was behind him, just outside the fissure, its massive arm reached in and grasped deeply into the man's shoulder.  So powerful was the hand that it and its dirt filled nails broke flesh and tore into muscle and sinew.  The panic returned to the man and gave him the strength to pull away even harder, coupled with the blood from the tear acting as a lubricant, he broke away.  The beast thing could not enter the fissure, its physique was too large and with a look of regret and pleading its eyes followed the back of the conquistador as he disappeared into the darkness.  

Dazed, wounded, and bleeding the conquistador stumbled not feeling the walls as they ground into him.  The entire way his only thought was to place distance between himself and the terror that was behind him.  "Some possessed demon of the underworld?", what manner of men were these Mecheeca or Aztecs to create and cage such things.  As he wound left and right, he prayed fervently to God that no other entry or exit or passage way existed, he prayed that he would not slip or flounder and turn himself around.  He could not bear that, anything but that.  Finally after much turning and twisting he came out into the blinding light of the sun and fell to his knees in thanks.  Fighting was still going on and so he quickly donned his armor as best he could and made his way to other Spaniards.
Infection set in that night and he went into a fever, during his deliriums raging about a beast no one seemed to understand.  Eyes wide with fear he would start and scream through anguished sweat drenched eyes only to collapse with shivers.  None were sure if he would survive but if so he would be needed.  The Spaniards had to abandon Tenochtitlan, Moctezuma was dead, and their preservation depended on every man fighting as they made their escape.  Eventually the capitol city would fall, the people would be disposed and a new European ruler would stand in the valley.  The Spaniard recovered, though he seemed different somehow, quieter.  The story he told were dismissed as a simple fever and he chose not to pursue it.  He remained off the island though, and found some post around the lake that would keep him busy.

The dust settles, the new kings and gods set up their monuments and continue robbing the earth of its riches for the glory of their own, history is always that way.  Months later, groups like those of DeSoto began heading north to explore and map the new world that was theirs.  These expeditions went out at different weeks and months.  Some returned, others never did, but that was the lot of a conquistador, to risk all for riches beyond the avarice in their souls.  When one bets, one sometimes loses, and these stakes were the lives set against the unknown.  One such group went out into the desolate North with with Indians as guides and translators.  They were a small army, well armed, well provisioned, carrying their priests as talisman for luck, and determined to find the Cibola of their dreams.  The cracked desert and valleys offered a myriad of hiding places for the imagined kingdoms of gold, every corner must be scoured and every map meticulously maintained.  A benefit that later generations would use, even as the bones of these men bleached the deserts.

Several weeks out, people began disappearing.  First it would be an indian, the later a another.  The leader of this group, whose name is as forgotten as this town you are now in, he took little notice, they were Indians and of little consequence in a land full of them.  But then one of the priests disappeared, and then a Spanish servant, he felt bad about that one, he had promised the mother to watch over him. Then coquistadores began disappearing and he could not have that.  It had to be the indians, so they were put to the question under supervision of the priests.  These priests were familiar with "the questioning" and the various devices used to ferret out heretics.  Even the Indians were impressed with what the priest could do with a knife, but while there was confession, no detail to prove the confession came, even after two were crucified in the way of our Lord and left as a sign.  At best they referred to the pagan god seeking revenge for his people.  That indian was slowly drawn and quartered while the conquistadors and priests made the sign of the cross to protect themselves from what they saw as their own vulnerable faith being assailed.  No other indian spoke, they knew their fates if they chose to speak their minds and so remained stoic, saying nothing.
They halted by a small oasis in an uncharted valley.  It was there that the mystery was solved.  Settling in this valley of the Raramuri, a tribe even the Aztecs feared, to reinforce their provisions and water, many more guards were posted.  These Raramuri indians, even in the mountains today, need no horses, they were swift and could run for days with little rest.  The conquistadors used them as scouts or slaves as they plundered on towards the north.  And still people in the encampment disappeared.  Early one morning, the leader and two of his guards, without schedule, inspected the grounds before patrol.  They heard a slight scuffle in one large tent, they pulled open a flap and saw two men.  One whose head had been twisted to face back to the tent's entrance while body faced forward to the back, and holding him up almost effortlessly was another conquistador, this one had carefully slit the man's throat and was rapidly gulping down the blood of the victim.  It seemed so casual and practiced as he effortlessly held up the other man.  So intent was the one conquistador in drinking the blood of the dead or dying man, he did not see the leader staring in shock.  With a shout, their captain called out in alarm for assistance, snarling the killer spun and dove at his captain who was saved by his breastplate as he went flying backward. Dozens of men rushed to their leader's aid and many more threw themselves upon other conquistador who seemed incredibly strong.  The numbers were too great and the killer went down and was held.  One of the priests holding him down kept repeating "Conde Estruch" while the indians fell to their knees shouting

"Cijuateteo".  The fear and sweat was palpable as these men bound the killer in rope, then in chains, as he struggled wildly with no semblance of the fellow conquistador who marched beside them all of these miles from the Valley of the Mecheeca.

The priests attempted to effectuate an exorcism but to no avail, they could see the madness in the man's eyes which seemed to be a mixture of regret and intense burning desire.  He no longer controlled who he was, he had given up his humanity and was past feeling as a human.  He could not make a choice, no choice was open to him as he had surrendered himself to whatever it was that possessed him.  In that harsh environment, their fears of the darkness, the unseen, the demons of their religion, the loss of trust in their companion, all combined to envelop their souls in spasms of terror.  Few would sleep well for many nights to come.  The priests ordered a deep pit dug the width of four men and the depth of three, and at the bottom of that pit another smaller pit sized for the man and his many chains.  They lay him there face down and alive, then as he screamed to hoarseness they placed an incredibly large stone over him, even as they prayed fervently to make the ground too sacred for him to crawl through should he escape from shackles and manacles that bound him.  Then they gathered every stone they could find, whiteness being a reflection of purity and piled it upon the heavy flat pillar.  They could hear the muffled shouts and curses as rock upon rock was thrown into the pit all of that day, and all of the night until dawn the next morning when the hot sun brought its clarity to the chill that they lived with.  No sound left the pile of stones, and without sleep, without delay the left this cursed place, leaving with it a local legend the Raramuri kept alive.

"OK, viejo" I said with a smile and some affection.  I liked this man, he knew how to transport people to another place and time.  "Are you telling me that pile of rocks on the other side of town holds the grave of a conquistador from the 16th century?"


He looked at me and frowned.  Looked down at himself for a moment, and then seemed to gather himself and said "Gringo, you are interrupting me again".
I was.  There were no two ways about it.  And while parts of my upbringing were rougher than others, in both of the cultures I was raised in, a modicum of respect even for an old man, was called for.  "I apologize, please go on."


"Little more happened here.  A small village sprang up by the well.  Jesuits came, and then they left.  The tribes abided in the mountains and eventually came down, Franciscans came for a time, and then they too left, and finally some vagabond priest set up and built the chapel.  We were never a rich community, we were never prosperous, like the seasons we harvested our food and sold some.  The Sierra Madres offered some metals, but none were found near us and even the government almost forgot about our town".  He then laughed.  "The census did not find us last time, or the time before, but the Bimbo truck brings supplies now and then."  Then he was quiet for a moment, as if remembering, or perhaps trying to remember.  He sipped more of his drink as if noticing me for the first time and then smiled.  His eyes squinted at me and said "Are you listening gringo".
"I am"


"Then let me tell you what happened one hundred years ago...."

"Look around you gringo, the adobe here is old.  But the wood in the broken half of this throw away house, it is older still.  Just over a hundred years ago fourteen of your people" and he said this with some sadness in his voice, but also with anger "came to our village.  We had some of the indians still here, some Yaqui and some Rarmuri and the rest like me, "mixtos".  "Ahhh," he sighed after a pause "still poor, - it is our lot to never know the rest of riches"
I did look around, and yes one half was old rough hewn timbers, the wood had long since rotted in the hot sun and assault from the weather.  It seems it was allowed to crumble slowly, you could see the makings of what was once selves on the wall and the end supports for a counter.  The center looked little better than kindling wood if that.  It could have been a bar at one time.
"These outlaws, they came riding in from the north, well armed.  They had ridden hard, and were glad to be away from the law of your land, while the chaos in our own did nothing to them, so they rode in with the arrogance of men who could take what they would from anyone they desired.  We had seen such men before and we knew to hide our comely women, leaving only the very old, usually they left those alone.
They rode into this bar and took what we had, mostly tortillas, meat, pulque and a little tequila.  So they sit in here as you and I do and wash this desert off their throats.  One enquired of the stones out there and a simple minded doddering old woman repeated the tale of the indians instead of feigning ignorance.  These hard men were like the conquistadores.  They were the takers, the robbers of lands, outlaws and they had long since abandoned God for their own riches.  Their suspicion is the same as all of their kind, Aztec gold.  So in they spoke, and as they rested they decided that the next day they would see what was below.  We did not speak their language and did not know what they planned, the old women tended them as they pulled their saddles into this room and made it their bed for the night.  
Morning came and as the sun rose, they rose with it.  Walking out they began removing the stones heaped high.  At first such a thing seemed strange to everyone here, but when it was understood they planned to remove all of the stones panic ensued.  Several of the old ones and even some of the younger children came out and begged them not to remove the stones.  In a final effort would run and throw the rocks back on the pile.  These outlaws looked at them in wonder.


"What in damnation?!?" their leader exclaimed in surprise.  That tall dark one was the hardest of them, like a devil, he had no heart, no mercy and simply pulled his gun and began shooting every villager nearby.  In neither anger nor hatred, but as a simple act of removing minor obstacles.  We are a small town, we had no weapons beyond our pruning knives and machetes.  They had guns and rifles and cared nothing for the lives they ended .  After five lay unmoving upon the earth, everyone else fled the town.  There was no hope or safety here anymore and we abandoned everything and ran to the mountains praying to gods or god to deliver them from what would happen."  I gave a wry look at that, wondering who would die for some rocks.  "You smile gringo, with your nice car and the many luxuries that separate you from the land.  But for us it was as real as our sitting here now."  Upon reflection, we do indeed die for rocks, or land, or country.  Who was I to question another then?


"They worked all of that day, and removed the stones they could and while much remained at dusk, there was enough extracted to expose the large pillar lain upon the bottom grave.  By then it was dusk and the the desert winds had begun to rise.  We get these dark dusty winds in seasons, some call it a "Chocolatero" or "Norte" and it darkens everything with its heavy dust stopping everything when it falls upon our small town.  As it blew the men retreated to this bar, leaving two to guard the grave.

The roar of the wind grew heavy and the dust so thick that even the lanterns inside were almost useless.  Dirt and dust swirled everywhere, when speaking under a kerchief one could feel the grit on one's teeth.  On days and nights like that, one usually simply endured and waited for the winds to die and the dust to settle.  The men settled as such men do while the winds grew louder and began to whistle and moan incessantly, they stared blankly or dozed for even in here the sands built up.  The heightened wind however could not drown out the gunshot and shriek.  To a man they grabbed their arms and ran out with the lanterns to see what had happened.  The indians might have returned, there were even Apache in the area, and one does not put anything past the Apache or the Raramuri (at this the old one smiled silently to himself, as if he were sharing a quiet joke, I didn't get it, at least not then).

They went out and found no one, but then what can you see in the height of such a storm, they looked into the pit itself but it was too dark to see much, though the pillar seemed to have shifted, everything else was obscured to empty shadows of nothingness.  So en mass they returned to the bar, this building (he again looked around and past me as if seeing right through me).  "There behind those boxes is an old window frame and door that was the main entrance" he said.  "They took positions" and he slowly got up cradling his soda in one hand as he slowly shuffled; "here, and here.  To guard, and to watch.  Two more over here in the back" as he walked to where the roof had collapsed and pointed it out.  He wheezed as he walked but it was important for him.  He needed me to know where everyone was.  Then he slowly sat back down, he had expended his energy and breathed hard.  We sometimes forget that age may bring infirmities to others.  He was sick, possibly dying.  I suddenly felt bad for a man I had referred to as "viejo".  He saw the pity in my eyes, and smiled as the eyes crinkled behind those large grey eyebrows.  "No need for your pity gringo.  My life, my choices are my own, they have not all been right, but they are my only possession which I can claim".

His declaration was profound and I think on it sometimes, how we own what we do, and how our choices are what create in the visage staring back to us from some distant future.

He gathered himself and continued.  "Those outlaws heard a voice with a lisp speaking in Spanish, but not our Spanish, no the style was that of an old Castilian type, as if a caballero were here in polite company.  Even in the wind they could hear its sibilent whisper 'como ethoith' and 'bienvenidoth'.  A dry cracking and rasping voice it would break into a mad man's chuckle or soft laughter.  'Heh heh heh, como ethtath... bienvenidoth' the voice would repeat as it blended in and out of the wind and earth.  An almost mocking madness.
These outlaws held tighter to their guns like religious talismans.  Suddenly a man was pulled through the window, before anyone could react, he was gone.  They ran out the front there to see, but saw nothing as the wind and voice continued to mock them.  These men turned to come in when another screamed, disappearing into the swirling dust.  There was no one, they saw nothing.  The outlaws, they pulled away from the doors and windows forming a tighter circle and yet it helped not at all.  A lantern fell and went out and their circle of light grew smaller still.  As the light diminished more were pulled away.  Slowly one by one they were all taken, now and again a shot would be fired but that was the only feeble retaliation.  Even their cold hearted leader began praying to a God he had long since repented of and had forgotten.  But there was no mercy here and he too succumbed.  After some hours only two remained and they stood in the center of the most feeble lights, back to back, guns drawn and hammers cocked...
The next morning, in the light of the new day a large group of Rurami Indians rode into town, perhaps 30 of them.  These are fierce warriors that even the Aztecs feared in their day, and the Mexican government wisely chose to avoid when possible.  They were a great people.  They came with great anger and fear in their eyes.  They saw the scattered rocks, and then entered this bar knowing this to be where the outlaws would stayed.  Unlike we poor people of the puebla this tribe was armed with guns, bows, and knives.  They entered ready for war, but instead saw there against the wall over there (he pointed out the place) the last outlaw, he was the youngest of them, he was no more than perhaps sixteen perhaps seventeen with a shock of blonde hair and blue eyes. Those eyes wide in terror as they kept staring at what wasn't there.  His guns empty, there was a methodical click, click, click, as he continued to pull back and the hammer with his thumb and then pull the trigger.  He stared past the savages at a memory that left him bereft of speech or a even a mind.  Rather than torture, they bound him tightly and left him lying there.  There were other worries to deal with first.  They ran to the pit.  
Dirt from the storm piled in places obscuring some details but they could still see the great pillar had been shifted.  Six of their bravest jumped in and shouldered the great pillar back into place.  With great speed they ran to the walls of the tomb and jumped or were pulled out by their fellow tribesmen.  Then with as much haste as possible, all of these men gathered every stone they could, and began refilling the pit.  They continued this all day.  They even ranged further out and brought more stones and piled them over the previous ones heaping the stones even higher than before.  By dusk they had finished and then, like gargoyles squatted on some gothic cathedral they began their vigil.  All held their weapons in the ready, as they sat around that small stone hill in a large circle.  They eyed the rocks with such a mixture of fierceness and terror one was not sure, should a single rock fall, whether they would remain and fight or flee back into the hills.  Words whispered between them "Cijuateteo" was mentioned once or twice as they held their own charms close to them.  All night they stared, tense and in fear.


Dawn came and for the first time they rested and even in those stoic faces one saw relief.  They gathered the bodies of their dead kin for ceremonies and then turned their attention to the young man who was bound.  In the many hours he was restrained, his sanity had returned to him.  Now a new but more mortal fear lay in his face.  They would not follow the norm of their tribe and torture him to the ending of his life.  This boy had been touched by a great spirit, an evil one, but it's power would curse them if they killed that young man.  The leader of this band came to him and said "What your eyes have seen, no man should see.  What your tongue can speak no man must hear".  And with that he held his head down and cut out the eyes of the man and then pulled and severed the tongue.  That poor man had no idea what was said to him then.  To him it was only the mumblings of a dangerous brute and then eternal blindness and pain.  Later he would learn the language and the words would be repeated to him, for he would live but his life was now the darkness and the confines of a village he had barely seen and a terror he had no understanding of.  The rest of his life the images of what was before him would haunt him, even as the women dutifully continued to care for him until he breathed no more.  One not so beautiful crone even took him to her bed. 

He lived his life here and is buried in the church yard across the way.  Choices after all, we all make them and we live with their results.
I had finished my lunch and looked at him.  "That is a heck of a story old man, you know you should write...."


For the first time I saw real anger flash his eyes.  He stood erect and said to me.  "Gringo, my words this late in life have no reason to deceive.  They are true!  I know them to be so because that man, that man was my grandfather." he hissed.
I was embarrassed, I had offended in the casual way unthinking people often do.  Presuming my words and the smile of my youth would cover and forgive all sins of disrespect.  "I am sorry old man, you are right to be offended, and I can only ask you to forgive me."
He eyed me in an almost contemptible way and then with resignation said "You are young, foolish, and you will make.... wrong choices"  He let it go at that and said nothing more to me but settled back in his chair.  Some bridges can be built, some can be broken, and some will never span the chasm between us.  I regretted my words.

I paid for my meal and went to the lady of the loncheria.  "Digame senora" I asked "Is the old one cared for?"

"Him?  Sometimes". she said with a shrug.

I gave her the equivalent of 50 dollars in pesos and said "this may help for a while". And I walked out.  As I got into my car, I frowned to myself.  The old man did have blue eyes after all, but then life is full of coincidences, and I left this small village and its large pile of white rocks.

Six years had passed.  In the interim they had found the Templo Mayor and I had risen to the level of Regional Controller and Vice President of Finances for Latin American in a large firm.  I had one of many offices in Polanco in the DF or Distrito Federal the capitol of Mexico, so in my time there I decided to satisfy my curiosity.
I walked into the area where the ruins were still being cleared.  They had excavated them almost to the base that had existed so long ago.  The old man had told me  the entrance was in the Northwest area, and so I hoped to make my way there.  It was closed, the excavations were still going on carefully, but it was a weekend and the archeologists had gone home so no one was allowed there.  I spoke to the security guard and he told me that under no circumstances could anyone enter.  I was familiar with the place and culture by now, perhaps not so arrogant as  I once was, and certainly more appreciative.  I also knew what is required when one wishes to paint outside the lines.  I offered the man a 20 and told him under no uncertain terms would I touch anything and I was merely asking him to accompany me to that portion.  The money would be to simply cover the cost of his time to watch me as well as the ruins.  It was a reasonable request.

We walked around to that area and made small talk about the pollution and weather.  Then as we turned I began scanning the cleared floor or what would be the upper part of the base.  There in the northwest I did indeed see what appeared to be the beginnings of a very narrow opening.  I stared at it for a good two to three minutes wondering at the implications before the guard nudged me to move on.

How does an old man, in a half abandoned village know about a temple entrance buried for almost 400 years?  I don't know.  I would like to find that village again.  The old man is probably just another cross in the church yard by now, and the rocks probably remain unmolested.  I would like to go back, and I would like see what is under that pile of rocks.  I don't care about riches, my riches reside in a wife that loves me (or puts up with me depending on our mutual mood) and children who are now making their "choices" but there is an itch or desire if you will, the need to know things.  I really would like to know.

 But then, would I regret it?