By Laura Lazorski
(Emily Hunkler contributed to this story)
A lot of travel done in Belize is on old school buses that are surprisingly still functional. We came to San Ignacio on one of these.
He saw us coming in on the bus. He was even back there helping to pull our luggage out of the back of the bus. He owned the Acropolis Maya Hotel and ran the ATM cave tours to boot. We stayed at the hotel he recommended, and we went on the tour he arranged for us. He intercepted us, and we were at his service for our entire stay. It is a hotel I would return to, up on the hill overlooking the colonial style town with mountains and mist hulking in the distance. I kept thinking how I’d love to come there for a time and write a novel, maybe a mystery.
ATM stands for Actun Tunichil Muknal, and was the main reason that we came. At $100usd average, it should be noted this tour is off budget. And the way we happened to be there is of controversial origin. One night while Emily was enjoying the free rum punch someone mentioned cave tubing. Emily’s eyes flickered with excitement and intrigue before she said, “Oh yeah, there’s cave tubing inland, I thought you were talking about a different cave.”
And she was talking in that probably-shouldn’t-have-said-that kind of way, and happened to talk of the ATM caves and how there was a crystallized skeleton of a Mayan sacrificial victim up in there, and how she wondered at it even being open to the public for long. How could we not go there? So I committed my shameful act, because in her three-drink-deep compromised state, what would later be jokingly coined the “vacation rape,” I got her to shake on a deal to go there and see that cave. This trip was not on the itinerary and was out of our way. It would slow us down. It wasn’t part of the budget. But there we were, rolling into town after a long and bumpy ride through the Belizean countryside. San Ignacio, that intriguing, misty town folded into jungle.
We were solely here to take the tour, so only two nights. The tour left at 7 am the next morning, so we had meals and showers and went to sleep. The next morning broke golden with church bells after a fresh fallen rain. Tom came out of his room grumbling about the church bells. We all climbed into an Isuzu Trooper driven by Mendoza, and bumped an hour or so on rough roads into the jungle.
Our guide was Danny. He was very no bones about it. Here are your helmets, here are your headlamps. Don’t get the headlamps wet, as in keep them above water. You must have clothes on in the cave, clothes that will get wet. You will remove your shoes once you are in the sacred part of the cave. These things are done out of respect. I will not talk about the cave till we are at the cave and gathered together. I will not tell you individually about the cave because this wastes my time. I will tell you all about the cave once we are ready to enter. Where you will need to listen, and in some cases tell the person behind you because it will be too narrow to communicate otherwise. It was terse, but effectively built my anticipation.
We had to hike in 45 minutes or so, and cross a river three times as we wound deep into the Tapir Mountain Nature Preserve. At the cave entrance there was a stilted roof where we stowed our water bottles on the rafters. Here Danny told us about the caves, how it was a privilege to enter a place once entered only by rulers and priests. I felt privileged. And suddenly I began to realize too the real challenge that lay ahead of me. I would swim deep water to get to a slim beach, a crescent inside the entrance of the cave. Deep channels carved in limestone ran away into the darkness, and slowly with a hand on each edge I lowered myself into the slate waters of the channel. And then we were told to switch our headlamps on, and we started in.
Hourglass entry into the underworld.
We were in water to our waist, and sometimes our neck. The channel was just wider than our bodies in some parts, with rocks closing over our heads or jutting toward our throats. In a train we would yell out “rock here!” or “swim this part!” and you could hear it repeat as people further down the line told each other and the instructions would ricochet around the cave or sometimes get completely absorbed in wet silence. We had to navigate one section by twisting our shoulders and feeding them through, and then our neck followed by our chin, and the head had to pivot during the motion so it could follow the chin. It was, in some parts, a squeeze. Danny told us that the water was probably much higher then, high enough for lit up canoes to pass and their light would flicker off rock formations and bounce shadows off the buttresses of the cave. Danny even said that people theorize the Mayans had sacred shadows. He used his flashlight to show us how a crone appeared on the cave wall when the formation was hit with light just so, and another a jaguar, and another a warrior.
If this had been a tour just to see stalactites and stalagmites I would have been impressed. There were columns that twisted like crystal be-gowned Oscar goers. There were wavers of rock that rippled and glistened like a tin washboard in the ceiling. And there were rivers of flowstone paralyzed and broken out in crystal sweat. Silence and darkness pressed around our small lights and showed us flashes of these bedazzled structures, opaqued by time. I never thought it was possible to seize the very rush of the river until now. Not able to track time all too effectively at this point, we reached the juncture in the cave where we had to climb up and remove our shoes. This was the entrance to inner cave, and the place of sacrifice.
Danny remarked, “You Americans were probably expecting a path and lights and rope,” and he sniffed. I thought, “No Danny, in American we would not be allowed in this cave.” I couldn’t believe I was even handling the stalagmites in this manner. There were times when we were using their arms and head as finger holds and a leg up. I was climbing on them for goodness sake. I was never allowed to even get my skin oil close to one in the States. I was overcoming a pervasive feeling of sacrilege when we came to our first artifact demarcated by some colored tape. Half emerged from the flowstone, as if they were bobbing along in an imperceptibly moving river, were human heads and bones and great earthen pots. Danny explained that this cave had never been excavated because there is no way to do it without disrupting the amazing crystal formations that encased the sacrifices.
The Mayans thought that the roots of the tree of life, the ceiba tree, reached down into this underworld and were the glittering stalactites above. So when they sacrificed a human they were feeding them directly to the roots of the tree of life. Danny explained that the pots too were intentionally placed on their side, pointed in certain directions. Some were upright collecting the milky drip off the stone roots above. He put forth a theory that some pots spilled their offering perpetually into the drift while the upright ones harbored the water of spontaneous beginnings. At least, that is what I thought he meant.
He also described the killings. One skeleton clearly had his hands and legs positioned behind him, meeting in the back, probably bound. He showed us a fracture in the
back of the skull that was probably the fatal wound, but not an instant death. It is thought that the Mayans were offering the slow transfer of life force—the extensive pain was the important part of the gift. Experts believe that the boy was turned to face the wall and left to die out in the dark.
We continued to see fragments of pottery and bone, and in a great chamber there was a massive wall of solid stone bearing the weight of the jungle above it that seemed to ripple and wave with the delicacy of a chiffon curtain caught in a slight breeze. We were not allowed behind the stone curtain, but Danny said that behind it they found the many skeletons of infants. He asked us why we thought a culture would sacrifice its infants, and quickly answered because of catastrophic natural forces like drought or war that bring desperation to human’s relationship with the gods. He said it was thought that they would kill the infant by laying the head in their palm and smashing it into the altar.
Being in the cave, an atmosphere where none in our group felt native or entirely comfortable, and seeing the violent ritualistic practices of a people it truly felt as though we were in an altar of a religion we were not a part of — like going to a Catholic wedding or a Muslim prayer service. You know what happens here is held sacred by many, beliefs held strongly enough to sacrifice human life as an offering to the Gods which governed them. Dark smears of smoke and creosote scarred the walls and ceilings where Mayan priests had made fires to hold their gatherings and ceremonies.
If you know anything about Mayan culture, you know how human sacrifice was a part of their religion. In this cave, all the macabre curiosity and intrigue that brought you here is humbled as you see the evidence laid before you. Religious human sacrifice is no longer an abstract idea, it’s a punctured skull at your feet, it’s a full skeleton who’s facial expression is most easily interpreted as that of agony and horror. They say the cave was only accessed by the most highly respected religious figures of the community and to experience it now, centuries later, as a tourist paying for a guided tour is a provocative scenario, but one that is highly recommended for those who have an interest and a respect for the cultural history that is so rich in Central America.
By Emily Hunkler
Snorkel lagoon entrance to Gran Cenote.
The flashlight that was just attached to my wrist was now fluttering, spinning and illuminating its path to the bottom of the cave. Damn it. I thought. Amateur mistake. I had dropped my torch before I had even dropped five meters. As I watched the beam of light fade into the depths I turned in time to notice my divemaster Luis disappearing before my eyes as well — and he was only an arm’s length away. We were descending into the cloud of hydrogen sulfide that lingers at 30 meters in the deep pit of Cenote Angelita. A nearly opaque strata separating the saltwater below it from the freshwater above it.
Cenote diving is a unique and exhilarating experience to your previous underwater adventures. It’s other worldly. It’s beautiful. It’s haunting. It’s awesome.
And if you are going to dive the cenotes of the Yucatan, you really must include one with the hydrogen sulfide cloud.
Most of the cenotes are easily accesible from Tulum; just a quick little drive out of town. And there are different options — the beautiful, sparkling white cave formations and cerulean blue lagoon waters of Gran Cenote, the spooky, haunted wasteland ambiance of Angelita and loads more in between. Talk to the dive shops in town and you can easily make an informed and fitting choice for your own interests and skill level.
No. Of course this is not an objective statement, but cenote diving is not such a jump in skill level as one might think. Sure there are stalactites and stalagmites to navigate, so long as your comfortable controlling your buoyancy you’ll be fine. And of course there is the issue of claustrophobia — ceiling overhead, rocky or sandy bottom beneath. This is, of course, a legitimate concern and among the more common phobias — but as long as you are confident in your ability to control this anxiety, you’ll be all right. And if you do freak out, your divemaster is right their with you to guide you safely to the surface — unless you have special training you won’t be too far from the surface at any time during your dive.
Spooky is more the word I would use to describe cave diving. The waters of Angelita lend the impression of an underground river winding its way around a dead and decaying cone of debris that rises from more than 60 meters below. Massive tree branches with white calcite accents on its trunk and branches stretching toward the sunlight. The distinct lack of marine life provokes a sense of unease during the dive that makes the experience all the more intoxicating. Should we be down here if nothing else is?
Even the pristine waters the likes of Gran Cenote are haunting in their own right. Ghost white spires and boulders piercing and punctuating the water from every direction providing the only contrast to the deep hues of blue and green waters. Deep tunnels with no end in sight beckon from the darkness beyond your flashlight’s beam.
Above the surface caves can seem unsettling and uninviting — but something changes when you sink into the system. The fear of the unknown is relinquished and the desire to explore as many cracks and crevices as possible takes over. At least this should be the case for most divers — why else did you ever begin your diving career? Just like you were nervous the first time you made eye contact with a barracuda or the rush you felt on your first night dive, anxious and a little scared to see what your torch would bring to light — cave diving is an exciting and unforgettable addition to your dive log.
By Laura Lazorski
My first solo assignment was Coba. Emily had to work on the website all day so she sent me to cover the Mayan ruins in Coba, and I also begged to go. I first heard of them from a French-Canadian who roomed with us in Isla Mujeres (which, if you recall, is the place to go during whale shark season). He said you can’t climb the tallest pyramid at Chichen Itza anymore. He said you could climb the tallest one in Coba.
I managed to ask the ADO agent for my ticket in Spanish, and was proud. I’ve been trying very hard to communicate in Spanish. I got to the bus station around 9:30am because the bus leaves at 10:00am, and they are usually on time. I bought a round trip ticket for 104 pesos. Importantly, the return bus left Coba at 1:45pm and if you aren’t on it you are stuck in Coba for the night or paying a lot of money for a taxi. The total trip by bus was about 45 minutes. Trampers take note: the bus leaves you closer to the entrance of the ruins, but picks you up farther out. Make sure to be toward the entrance of the gravel lot looking for your bus around 1:40pm.
It cost me 52 pesos to get in the complex. Once in, you realize that the ruins are much farther apart than at Chichen Itza, and that you should probably rent a bicycle, or hop in a bicycle taxi. There are guides versed in many languages at the entrance and their rates are negotiable. I sped right past them though because I was on a mission to climb the tallest pyramid at Coba. So for 35 pesos I rented a bicycle and headed down the gravel path in the direction of the largest pyramid.
The excellent part about the ruins of Coba is that they are not rehabilitated and many are still amassed with jungle. The gravel paths that linked the ruins had jungle bending up and around them, vines shaking hands at the apex. The jungle surround made a tunnel of sorts. The bike jaunts between ruin sites were nice and shady, and I did not require as much sunscreen as I had planned for (bonus!). Birds cried out as butterflies cut all around the cyclists en route. It was a verdant, hot day dream.
I pulled over many times. I had to get my eyes on each site: a ball court, a market place, paintings where only the sepia tones survived, and great carved tablets. Finally, I pulled in to the area in front of the large pyramid. Signs about warned that climbing was done at one’s own risk. Yes, that is how it should be. I tried to take in the full shape of the pyramid, a blast of heat and bright stone. I saw a massive rope bisecting the terraced ascent, and saw the grooves of so many footsteps concentrated in the center of the climb, where the rope was too. I recalled that people had fallen to their death in their descent, which is why the rope was there. Dizzying thought, that the ruins still protect themselves with their sheer height.
So I drank some water and climbed. It took all of 15 minutes to ascend, but it was a path carefully picked. The stones are worn unevenly, and of varying heights. I could only look down with intense concentration during the entirety of the climb. I tried to keep my pace regular and stayed focused on steady, relaxed breathing. I made it to the top alright, one or two big last steps and then I was there. In the face of structure at the top, I noticed a man carved upside down and then a man carved right side up. I focused on these carvings and the absurdity of a world inverted, at this height, before I turned around. And of course, it was worth the climb. The farthest reaches of the jungle were open to the eye, and it is a mighty jungle indeed. As it turned out, I managed the descent just fine. I saw some people scooting down on their bums like crabs, so there is that way. But know that you can get down the ruin and live to tramp another border.
I came out of the park at 1:20pm, which did not leave me enough time to catch a taxi to the nearby cenotes for a swim. The taxis ask for about 35 pesos to take you to them, an easy 6km away. That was my regret and a possible advantage to going with a group and chartering a taxi for the day. Alas, my bus was due at 1:45pm, the last bus back to Tulum that day, and so I boarded and thanked the universe for the privilege to climb the great stairs of a Mayan temple.
Quick friendships are forged between human and beast. (photo – Jersen Barandica)
When a local diveshop owner mentioned offhand that the whale sharks are most active during the full moon. Naturally, I needed to know why immediately. She explained that the plankton is in full-bloom when the moon is full. I was floored by this revelation. Why does the plankton bloom when the moon is full? To what innate call are they ineluctably drawn, and how many other creatures are in synchronicity with this event? Well I know of two creatures anyway, the manta ray and the whale shark.
I briefly researched her claim, and learned that plankton blooms increase when the moon is waxing and decrease when the moon is waning.
How incredible! How many more life forms are tuned to the wax and wane of the moon? A true mystery of the deep, and this mystery filled my brain as we loaded our gear into the boat. We headed out to sea, and away from Isla Mujeres in search of the spot rich in plankton that was currently the lure for our whale sharks.
As we neared the place, my first thoughts were of Jaw’s informed terror as I watched the horizon being cut up with shark fins. 1) Am I seriously going to get in this ocean, and 2) am I actually going to put my body next to the largest fish in the ocean? Well, yes and yes. I came out here to do this, so do this I will. Ariel, also an owner of the dive shop, called our attention to the plankton first. It was a murky, red floating substance lulling along with the waves.
Another thrill of nature was in front of me. Yes, the largest fish in the ocean eats only this barely perceptible floating stuff. And sure enough, Ariel points to a whale shark headed straight for us. Its mouth opened completely, it was skimming the surface and sucking in water, plankton, and all. Its body was bespeckled in beautiful, regularly arranged polka-dots that flashed white as it passed beneath our boat.
Whoa! I am getting in. I can’t even believe we are allowed to get in. I got to get in. No longer afraid of the most giant, gorgeous cat-fish like wisemen of the deep, I plunged into the water. Ok, almost not afraid. Because of course when I got close to one and saw their sheer size, I was in awe. Their skin sparkled with gold sheen, and every part was efficiently sheathed muscle undulating with strength. I want to emphasize the word “part,” because they were truly so big they could only be processed in parts. Accepting this fish as a whole was a nearly impossible feat!
I would swim close and examine their tails, or the taper from their mid-body to their tail, or the long cord like muscles that ran the length of their torso. I grew most obsessed with watching their gills ripple and pump water. I started actively swimming alongside them in order to peer in their gill slits and catch glimpses of the honeycomb like structures inside. I was just another of the many remoras drafting off the whale shark’s momentum.
I swam alongside one long enough to stare into its eye. And it stared into mine. I thought of what Nietzsche meant when he said if you stare long enough into the abyss it will stare back into you.The connection grew so prolonged that I had to break it, and swim away. I grew timid when I thought of what the whale shark might think when it was considering me, and why it would not break the connection itself. Like the Dryads in Lord of the Rings, perhaps their sense of time is much, much longer than our own.
A piece of me will forever be in sync with that whale shark, looking into each other and considering our collective mystery. We are both here for only a period of time, but we met each other once, and that moment was timeless.
Click here to see plankton blooms from space!
Take me back to Dive: Isla Mujeres and Whale shark snorkeling
It has been a life long dream of mine to gaze upon this modern wonder of the world, the magnificent ruins of Chichen Itza. I watched so many documentaries and read books about the great civilization that hacked out their stronghold from the grasp of the jungle. Great pyramids that scraped the sun, human sacrifice, the vicious ball courts arenas, and the mysterious chac mools all derisively reclining.
And finally, I arrived. After 32 years of imagination, I personally was being beat down by the jungle heat and shouldered by the many people as excited as I was. In fact, I was so daunted by the uncompromising sun that I tied up a bed sheet and draped it over me, hat and all, to escape the merciless rays. The sun is an awesome force. This is the sun that inspired bleached white temples, bald in the glare, and rituals as drastic as human sacrifice.
*Note to travelers, if you are of fair complexion, prepare x 3 for the inescapable sun.*