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 dont 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 pfavor 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 wasnt 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 wouldnt 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 wasnt 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.
Posted on: Wed, 05 Mar 2014 01:06:46 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015