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Published: October 16th 2011
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Now this is somethin’
We embark on Ruta Puuc, heading eastish out of Tikul along two-lane highways. It’s not hard to navigate around this area if what you’re seeking is along a highway. There just aren’t that many roads. Plus there’s a surplus of signs reminding drivers not to speed or litter and of course, the lineup of upcoming towns. I’m driving this time and I quickly relax into it, realizing driving in the Yucatan is no biggie. I resolve though that I won’t tell my parents we rented a car until after it’s been returned.
Puuc means “hills” and this region is where the term “hills” came to represent the style of architecture of the ruins we’re going to see (and have had a flavor of at Chichen). We come to our first hill and there are signs blazoned everywhere, warning drivers that yes, indeed, they are on a hill. The ground is rising but don’t panic.
Our first stop is Uxmal which our guidebook said we should not miss if we had a smidge of time. And again, our guidebook steers us well. Uxmal is quite, quite beautiful and intricate. The buildings are largely intact (or mostly
Quadrangulo de las Monjas
What an unimaginative name for such a starkly-pleasing palatial courtyard. put-back-together) and each has a distinct character. These are no lumps of stone with some flashes of carved memory here and there. This place has a breath of life left in it; it feels like an actual living space.
We go down a series of modern stone steps past the visitor center, reading signs that are translated into Spanish, English, and Mayan. The first sight is the Casa del Adivino (WHY it is called the Magician’s House, I still don’t frickin’ know) and I’m instantly entranced. It’s a pyramid with rounded corners! I learned long ago that I prefer curves over squares so this is right up my alley. Behind it is a pleasant sun-filled, swallow-inhabited courtyard with bird carvings on the eastern side. We sneak between buildings, wondering if we’re supposed to be going this way, and then we come to the impressive palace complex (perhaps a palace) that the Western-minded archeologists dubbed the Nuns’ Quadrangle. (Really, what sort of man, and it was most definitely a man, walked around these ruins back in the day and thought, “Yep, I bet this is where the nuns would hang out.” I am not a fan of that archeological naming
Serpent god
Magnificent! fashion.) The quadrangle has four low-slung, cream-grey symmetrical buildings ringing a wide-open flat-flat green space. The western-most building has a fearsome, lovingly-carved feathered-serpent winding all over the façade above the doorways (Mexican influence). The elephant-nosed rain god Chac adorns every corner. I poke into many of the rooms but as it was at Ek-Balam (and as it will be at all the others), most of the rooms are small, peaked, and smell of bat guano and must. Kurt and I muse about these small, unadorned rooms. What were they used for? Living space? The outside of the buildings seem to be where most of the architectural energy flourished. These little rooms are dank, dull, and dark. Were they much different way back when?
There’s a ball court with a broken snake set up along one side, a small temple with happily-rounded tortoises parading around it, another steep-staired pyramid, and the breathtaking Governor’s Palace. The palace has a magnificent façade that stretches 100m long with gods, governors, jaguars, and snakes cavorting (in a stately manner) amidst 3-D stone lattices. There are so many buildings in this place, their heaviness softened by the intricate detail of the figures and geometric patterns.
So much thought went into these creations, so much planning. Again, Kurt and I find ourselves wishing that we could them painted as we are often told they once were. Red, blue, green splashed across all these timeworn surfaces. That would make these preserved monuments to history live. That would impress again on any visitor how marvelous these human creations were, how strange and unusual and divine they would have seemed to a visiting rural farmer.
We go to three of the other Ruta Puuc sites, curving down the mostly empty country highways, through puffs of butterflies. Kabah, where hundreds of Chac faces decorate one façade, a nook of pulsating butterflies entrances me, and a simple arch marks the swallowed-up sacbé (white road) which once connected all these temple outposts. Sayil, where the only thing I really remember is that I stepped on a baby bird. I didn’t kill it. Enough said. Labná, where El Arco captivates both Kurt and I. The arch at Labná is thought to have connected two plazas, perhaps one of which was the personal courtyard of an aristocratic family. I’m still not sure what was so remarkable about it. I just remember feeling that
Loveliest of lovely archs
My perfect Puuc piece. At Labna. it was perfect. Perfect in its shapes, placement, dimensions, carvings. And there were smudges of faded red and green paint in one of the insets! Paint that is hundreds of years old, lending that arch and all else around it one last heartbeat.
A night of street food
We collapse for a brief while back at Hotel San Antonio but our stomachs take us back out. We see dozens of folks with corn on the cob so we gravitate toward the one man supplying. And of course, there’s nothing simple about these elotes (corn on the cob). We get one slathered in mayo, dunked in fresh cream, rolled in “queso sobrado” which is kind of like parmesan, and dipped in chile. All those toppings are a bit much but we gamely eat. But Kurt has the street-food wanderlust and we peel away from the plaza to look for that perfect quick bite. Kurt finally gets his fix at a taco stand where the fat, dad-like cook and his attractive wife ask us relaxed questions about the US and our travels. The cook gifts us with a cabezita de res (little cow head) taco.
We go back to
the plaza for some more people-watching, our last night in a small, non-touristy town. A group of pre-teens edge over to us and then swamp us, pushing right in like colts, grinning their questions and giggling before we can even respond, at us and themselves. They ask us if we took a boat to get there, they ask where else we had traveled, they ask us if we’re in love. No holds barred with this crew. After a bit, the awkwardness grows too large and they move away, releasing that energy in a game of freeze-tag. All pretenses at adulthood fall away as they play.
This has been a superb wandering day.
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