october-2009

048
ON THE TOWN: CANCUN
grass growing in the middle of the street. A
man, whose name I soon learn to be Jose,
is grilling something that smells delicious.
I’m hungry, so I purchase a plate of ribs,
tortillas and cabbage from him. The ribs
are smoky and spicy, and I quickly make
a pyramid of cleaned bones on my plate
while Jose, at my request, draws a crude
map to Aké on a napkin.
Shortly thereafter, I find what I believe
to be the turnoff for the ruins (despite
the lack of a sign, which would normally
indicate the presence of a historic site).
Hopeful, I wind my way through blue-gray
maguey fields and brushy foliage on a narrow,
two-wheel rutted road—which, after
miles of driving, dead-ends abruptly. The
car slows to a stop, and I sit for a moment
in my air-conditioned rental, the realization
dawning that there is no hint of any ruins
existing beyond the surrounding thicket.
Upon exiting the car—I might as well
see what lies here at the end of this unfortunate
detour—I am immediately greeted by
a swarm of horseflies, whose bites, I quickly
learn, are incredibly painful. Things are not
going well.
Through the buzzing cloud, however,
I spot a gulch leading to a manhole-sized
opening in the ground; a nylon rope tied
to a nearby tree leads out of it. While
there are no rivers to speak of in the
northern Yucatan, there is a vast network
of underground waterways with thousands
of sinkholes (called cenotes) opening into
watery subterranean caverns. Yes, finding
Aké is the main objective—but I can’t resist
descending. Tiny blindfish swim in the
clear water below and bats dart overhead.
While I hang from the rope, I realize that to
a (horse)fly on the wall, I’m doing a pretty
good Indiana Jones impression (hoisting
myself up out of the hole, however, I probably
cut a different figure).
I’ve wasted too much time already,
so once back in the car, I make tracks for
a village I had passed earlier, to ask once
more for directions. This time, they get me
to my intended destination.
I arrive at Aké, which is dominated
by two large buildings: a steep pyramidal
structure and a broad raised platform
topped with pillars. Most of the site consists
of overgrown mounds—ruined structures
slowly being reclaimed by nature. Aké may
GO MAGAZINE OCTOBER 2009
not be as conventionally beautiful as other
ruins, but it is completely deserted save for
one local who is harvesting firewood, and
the feeling of discovery invoked by such
isolation is impressive. I make a preliminary
survey of the main buildings, but I’m
looking for something specific: In his
book, Stephens wrote about a small, dark
chamber, called an Akabna, atop one of the
structures—and I am determined to find it.
At the top of the furthest mound I spot
some crumbling masonry. I head toward
it, pushing my way through thick brush,
with 3-foot-long iguanas slithering away at
the sound of my footfalls. There, atop the
hill, partially obscured by the overhanging
vegetation, is a small square opening.
My anticipation builds. I wipe the sweat
from my forehead, take a deep breath,
and squeeze through the entrance, just as
Stephens had done more than 160 years
ago. When my eyes adjust to the darkness,
I see, as expected, that it is empty, filled not
with valuable artifacts but with air that feels
damp and close.
On the off chance that the chamber will
begin to rumble and rocks start tumbling
down at me (isn’t that what happens in
the movies?), I climb back out into the
blistering sun, ecstatic that my first mission
was a successful one.
THE NEXT DAY, I SET OUT
for Labphak (now called Santa
Rosa Xtampak), intrigued by
what Stephens described as “the tottering
remains of the grandest structure that
now rears its ruined head in the forests of
Yucatan.” I pull off at Hecelchacan, a town
that, according to the map, looks somewhat
close to the ruins.
Even though the local cook wasn’t
able to help me on my last excursion, I sit
down at a busy tamale stand and ask the
owner for directions while chewing a pair
of chicken and cheese tamales that set
my mouth on fire. Between his rapid-fire
Spanish and the distraction of my blistered
tongue, all I am able to make out is that I
am not particularly close. Again, I request
a rough map on a napkin. But when I
attempt to decipher the random lines and
unpronounceable Mayan names scrawled
on it, I doubt that I’ll ever find Xtampak.
Still, a crude map is better than no map
at all, so I head east into a region of rolling
green hills surrounded by cornfields. Eventually,
I arrive at a rough dirt road marked
with an arrow pointing to Xtampak, and
make the turn, aware that I’m about to
ask more of my economy-sized car than
the rental company had intended. During
30 minutes of dodging cauldron-sized
potholes, I don’t pass another soul. With
no water and the gas needle dipping
below half, I realize it’s probably foolish to
continue, but the prospect of exploring a
truly remote ruin holds my foot on the gas
pedal. An hour goes by, and my excitement
turns into anxiety. I am convinced I missed
a turn, and reluctantly begin to turn the car
around in the middle of the road.
Two points into my three-point turn,
however, I spot a cloud of dust that seems
to be moving toward me. A pickup truck
emerges, and I flag down a rancher, who
informs me that the ruins of Xtampak are
just five minutes further down the road.
Aké