Kenneth Reimer's Blog, page 3

“The Stones of Ilium” – January 23, 2015

I stood before the gates of Troy and called out to those heroes of old: “Achilles, Agamemnon, Odysseus, Hector….” To be on that storied ground, to tread the same earth once pressed by their sandals, thrilled me, and as I spoke their names, I could feel the rush of adrenalin. Before me, the once great city lay in ruin, brought down by time and fate, but my imagination told hold of those scattered stone, lifted them into a whirlwind, and before my eyes, the city rose anew. Spiraling back through time, age by age, block by block, higher and higher, the ancient walls reclaimed their former glory, once again standing lofty and impenetrable. Was that the faint clash of arms echoing on the plain? Did ghostly figures waver at the fringes of my vision?

The Eastern Gate of Ilium

Most of what we know regarding the Trojan war is detailed Homer’s epic poem: The Iliad, thought to have been composed in the eighth century B.C. Different versions of the epic have sat on successive bookshelves of mine since I could first afford my own copy. That ragged, dog-eared, second-hand volume was replaced by more expensive editions until a hardcover copy that I had given my father came back to me after he died.

It is difficult to articulate what it meant to be at that place. Troy, or Ilium—its ancient name—has been an influence in my life since the beginning of memory. Its story is one of the most celebrated in Western culture. An epic battle in an age where men and women strove with gods, how could such a tale ever fail to inspire us? Over three thousand years after the Ilium fell, contemporary artists still feel compelled to bring it to life. It had taken me several hours of driving to reach the ancient city, but my true journey to Ilium began years before.

The route that led me to those ruined gates was a circuitous one. On my first trip to Greece, I ventured to the island of Ios, where Homer’s remains are purported to be interred. Did he actually spend his last days on that barren rock with its great beaches and inexpensive beer? No one knows, but it is fitting that his resting place is as blurred with reality and myth as is his greatest poem.

As recounted in the mythology, the impetus for the ten-year war was the kidnapping of Helen by Paris, one of the princes of Ilium. Paris was smitten by Helen’s unparalleled beauty, but he would have been wise to anticipate her husband’s unparalleled wrath. Helen was married to Menelaus, the ruler of Sparta and the brother to Agamemnon, the Greek king of kings. In answer to this horrific insult to his brother’s pride, Agamemnon amassed a mighty armada that set sail to Ilium and laid siege on the city. As a result, Paris was indeed “smitten,” as were all those doomed souls who lived within the walls of Ilium.

The end of the war is never described in The Iliad; we learn of the city’s fate in later tales. The story of its fall, however, is so ubiquitous in Western culture that nearly everyone is familiar with some variation of its mythological conclusion. The wily Odysseus, king of Ithaca, devises a stratagem in which the Greek army feigns defeat and, as a tribute to the Trojans, leaves behind a gigantic wooden statue of a horse. (Ironically, the so-called Trojan horse was actually a Greek creation.) The Trojans take the statue into the city. After nightfall, the warriors hiding within the horse’s belly creep forth to unleash murder, rape, and fire upon glorious Ilium. Utter devastation ensues—the broken wall, the burning roof and tower. Of all the Trojan warriors, only one seems to survive: Aeneas, and that is another story. (A very, very long story, as a matter of fact.)

History offers another version of the war. It should be noted that in this case, history relies as much on speculation as Homer did on imagination. Without question, however, the city of Troy did exist, and excavations of the site have revealed a successive number of Troys, each built upon the ruins of the one preceding it. The earliest manifestation of the city may date back four thousand years. As for the Ilium of Homer’s poem, it appears to have been destroyed by fire some time around 1250 B.C. If a war did occur, Helen was probably not the cause. More realistically, the struggle focused on establishing primacy over trade on the Aegean Sea. Rather than beauty, love, and honour; most likely it was greed that launched those thousand ships. There is no evidence that the horse devised by Odysseus ever existed. There is, however, a historical account of an earthquake that occurred in the area at approximately the same time as the war. A slightly more believable version of the war’s end, therefore, is that the walls of Troy were breached by Mother Nature, and the invading Greeks simply capitalized on this event.

The first archeological evidence that Ilium actually existed came from an unlikely source—a wealthy German businessman named Heinrich Schliemann. Schliemann was a linguistic genius who taught himself Greek and then studied The Iliad free from the contortions of translation. Treating the descriptions within the poem as literal fact, he financed an expedition and set out to find the fabled ruins. Schliemann’s analysis of Homer’s epic led him unerringly to the site of the buried city. His techniques of excavation make contemporary professionals wince; however, it was Schliemann who brought Ilium back into the light.

Following my trip to Ios, I travelled to the site of Mycenae, the ancient fortress of Agamemnon. These ruins sit atop a hill and are so massive, it seems that over millennia, the sheer weight of the stones has pressed the earth downward. Schliemann had been here as well, and once again guided by Homer, the German had uncovered a literal treasure trove of artifacts. The most famous of the pieces he discovered is an exquisite golden funeral mask that Schliemann identified as belonging to Agamemnon. Modern archeologists have since determined that his dating of the artifacts was incorrect; regardless, his discovery of the treasure was noteworthy. I was able to see these golden relics on display in the Athens museum, and although the mask did not belong to the king of kings, it was nonetheless captivating.

After Mycenae, my next destination was Ilium itself.

I spoke the litany of names a second time, and they began to resonate like a dirge: “Achilles, Agamemnon, Odysseus, Hector….” Such tragedy. It was thrilling to stand on the same ground where Prince Hector—the most heroic character in the war—strode out to answer the challenge of Achilles. Hector knew he could not match the martial prowess of his opponent, but for the sake of his city, his people, he could not refuse to try. Even Odysseus, who alone would not die a violent death, would have to face ten years of hardship before returning home. (And that is another very, very long story.)

Of the south gate—the main entrance to the city—almost nothing remained. It challenged my imagination; however, there was a mounted display with an artist’s rendering of how the gate would have once looked. This helped bring the time-battered rocks to life, and I could envision the wall rising to reassert the lost dominance of Ilium.

I wandered about the ruins, careful to differentiate between the Ilium of Homer’s epic and the other levels of excavations. The eastern wall and gate still stood high, and I let my fingers trace along the stones as I walked past. What tales those walls could tell….

An hour after leaving the main gate, I came upon the Schliemann Trench. This has itself has become a type of artifact. Only days before his permit from the Turkish government was about to expire, Schliemann had still found nothing. In desperation, he ordered that a trench to be dug into the landscape. A hill named Hisarlik was cleft, and Schliemann’s gamble paid off: several layers of Troy were uncovered. Thousands of years laid bare. He had finally grasped the Golden Fleece. This ridiculous stab at archeology has been left relatively untouched; although, the various incarnations of Troy have been labelled with small signs.

It was the confluence of diverse influences that pushed me toward Ilium: mythical, historical, literary, and finally seeing those ruins was the culmination of years of travel. It became ironic then, that only two hours passed before my interest began to wane. The sun burned hot in that dry landscape. Imagination and wonder withered in the summer heat. The thirst for experience was supplanted with an actual thirst. As my imagination flagged, the walls came back down, and the stones fell into scattered heaps. The names of the heroes were carried away by the furnace breeze. The legends grew silent once again.

Somewhat begrudgingly, I turned my back on Ilium and walked from the millennial city. When I reached the road that would return me to the modern world, I glanced back a final time toward the site. Rising high above the entrance, a thirty-foot replica of the Trojan horse towered above the trees. I shook my head at the unintentionally comic impression it created. It was so large that it would not have fit through the gates of historical Ilium. I shrugged, it hardly seemed to matter. Within that place of blended truth, myth, and fantasy, anything was possible.

Kenneth D. Reimer

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“Black Water and Pebbled Rainbows”

The canoe slides along the river in eerie silence, and I recall from my last trip to the Amazon that the jungle is like this—so quiet, even though we are surrounded by life. The stillness carries a sense of expectancy, and I strain my ears for any sound that might herald a sighting. Mostly what we hear are birds, and these occasional cries seem distant.

The only consistent sound is the oars. They slip into the water with an almost musical rhythm—dip, rush, drip, dip, rush, drip….

My eyes study the chaotic jumble of plants as they flow by, but I do not know the way of seeing in the jungle; everything becomes a blur of tangled bark and smudged green. And then there is the black river passing beneath the boat.

Dip, rush, drip….

The water resembles black tea, and I wonder what lies hidden beneath its surface. It is, quite literally, black. The larger rivers in the Amazon basin are fed with melt-water from the ice and snow of the Andes, but most of the smaller rivers and creeks are created by rainfall. The rain seeps through the soil and rotting vegetation, collecting tannins which turn it black. It’s fascinating, but the jungle is enough of a mystery without the river also masking its inhabitants.

Arriving at this primordial place, at this moment, has felt something akin to a journey back through time.

From Quito, the capital of Ecuador, we took a short flight over the Andes cordillera and then set down in a town besieged by the jungle. A short bus ride took us to the Napo River, where a bizarre suspension bridge thrust above the water like an alien tripod from The War of the Worlds. We climbed into a motorized longboat and sped two hours upriver. After that, another hour and a half passed in a much smaller canoe powered only by two paddlers and a guide. The canoe had a shallow draft, and the gunwales were so close to the water that every careless motion threatened to capsize us.

As we travelled, every successive change of transportation, each more primitive than the last, drew us further and further from the modern world. Sitting in the canoe, gliding by a landscape of virgin rainforest, I could almost delude myself into believing that I had journeyed a thousand years into the past. The trip engendered a sense of duality, for the digital SLR in my hand kept pulling me back to the twenty-first century.

The culmination of our regressive journey came when the river we travelled opened into a small lake, and on its western shore, we could see the lodge where we would stay. The small patch of land had been carved from the jungle. All supplies arrived by canoe. There were no roads, nothing to connect it to the outside world except the waterway we had just traversed.

As we crossed the short distance to the lodge, our guide, Juan, cautioned us that the lake was not for swimming. Lurking in the water were things that could kill us. He listed several dangers: poisonous snakes, electric eels, anacondas, and then he described the black caiman.

I had seen many caimans in my travels, and I thought I knew what to expect. Most often, I’d seen them lazing on riverbanks. At night, I’d shone a light over the water and seen their eyes flash out of the darkness. I had always considered them to be the insignificant cousins of crocodiles—fearsome looking in detail, but miniature in size and hardly worthy of consideration. The black caiman, however, exceeded my expectations—frighteningly. Several large specimens inhabited the lake before the lodge, and Juan informed us that they could grow up to five metres long, sixteen feet. It was a sobering revelation, and I knew my trip would not be complete until I had seen one of these monsters.

Juan then cautioned us that we had to be especially careful at night. A concrete pier stretched out from the lodge into the lake, and at its end was the platform that we would use to climb in and out of the canoe. It was safe enough in the daytime, but in the darkness, the big caimans could be found slumped on its edge. A midnight stroll to the end of the pier could very well become a stroll to the end of one’s life.

Early the next morning, I watched a canoe launch from the pier and set off across the lake. The flat light of the newly risen sun was mirrored on the water, and the world could hardly have been more serene. The small boat took only moments to reach the opposite shore, and then it disappeared into the jungle. I felt a stir of unease; with nothing to mark its passing, the canoe might never have existed at all. Once again, I felt a sense of duality: in the blink of an eye, the pre-historic had reasserted itself.

At that moment, Juan came down to the pier to organize the morning’s excursion, and I considered the direction that his life had taken. He’d been born in the rainforest and had grown up hunting animals with a blow dart. (I had a difficult time wrapping my head around that reality.) Then the outside world had descended upon his village, and he had been yanked from the stone age into the space age. As a child, he had lived a role in The Gods Must Be Crazy. As an adult, he could watch that movie on his iPod.

We walked the length of the pier, stepped down into our canoe and set out from the lodge. We crossed the small lake, and then we too disappeared from sight. Very soon, we would come eye to eye with a black caiman.

Dip, rush, drip…the canoe slips through the black water. The jungle has wrapped around us. The air feels damp. We now move through shadow. I watch my companions, our paddlers, and our guide all search the gloom for wildlife. I can feel that familiar rush of adrenaline—what will we see?

At the front of the canoe, Juan leans forward and stares toward the bank. He’s noticed something. A bird calls down from the trees, but he mutters, “Toucan,” and dismisses it with a shake of his head. His eyes never waver. Then he points toward a fallen tree. In the water beneath, we can just see the head of the caiman.

The canoe slows. Then, with a stroke of a paddle, it stops. There are hushed exclamations of awe. Only the top half of the head is visible, little more than the eye and the ridge of brow above it. We see the suggestion of a body, but the dark water conspires to hide it from our view. It hardly matters; what we can see is mesmerizing. For a moment, two species regard one another in silence. Then cameras were levelled, and a frenzy of photographs swirl about the humid air. I snap the obligatory amount of pictures, then let my camera rest in my lap and savour the experience of exchanging a long look with that cold-blooded killer.

The eye—I struggle to find language adequate for its description. The word “alien” comes to mind, but that is merely an impression. I could liken it to marble cut and polished by that Michelangelo Evolution, but such a comparison would fail to capture its complexity and precision. The vertical pupil is at once beautiful and chilling.

The arc of brow above the eye captures my attention. It hardly seems organic—more like molded plastic or wind-sculpted stone, and the tiny segments that line the ridge remind me of pebbles. Like a miniature rainbow, they have a bit of an iridescent sheen that reflects a myriad of colours.

How wonderful it is to float there, so close, and study this creature. It is not a monster of fifteen feet (we will see one close to this length a few days later), but the encounter is nonetheless remarkable.

Such moments never last. Attention wanes, and we paddle away to explore another part of the river, eager for other experiences. On our return trip, we pass by that same spot, and the caiman has not moved. What alien patience and immobility. It seems frozen into that image of watchfulness, but I can imagine the explosive action that could shatter this illusion of calm.

We slip by, not unnoticed, but certainly regarded with reptilian indifference.

A short time later, we reach the lake and cross back to the lodge—our small outpost on the edge of the primordial past.

Kenneth D. Reimer

Amazon Page: http://www.amazon.com/author/kennethdreimer

Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/kenneth.d.reimer

Google+ Page: http://www.google.com/+kennethdreimer-writer

“Black Water and Pebbled Rainbows” – January 12, 2015

The canoe slides along the river in eerie silence, and I recall from my last trip to the Amazon that the jungle is like this—so quiet, even though we are surrounded by life. The stillness carries a sense of expectancy, and I strain my ears for any sound that might herald a sighting. Mostly what we hear are birds, and these occasional cries seem distant.

The only consistent sound is the oars. They slip into the water with an almost musical rhythm—dip, rush, drip, dip, rush, drip….

My eyes study the chaotic jumble of plants as they flow by, but I do not know the way of seeing in the jungle; everything becomes a blur of tangled bark and smudged green. And then there is the black river passing beneath the boat.

Dip, rush, drip….

The water resembles black tea, and I wonder what lies hidden beneath its surface. It is, quite literally, black. The larger rivers in the Amazon basin are fed with melt-water from the ice and snow of the Andes, but most of the smaller rivers and creeks are created by rainfall. The rain seeps through the soil and rotting vegetation, collecting tannins which turn it black. It’s fascinating, but the jungle is enough of a mystery without the river also masking its inhabitants.

Arriving at this primordial place, at this moment, has felt something akin to a journey back through time.

From Quito, the capital of Ecuador, we took a short flight over the Andes cordillera and then set down in a town besieged by the jungle. A short bus ride took us to the Napo River, where a bizarre suspension bridge thrust above the water like an alien tripod from The War of the Worlds. We climbed into a motorized longboat and sped two hours upriver. After that, another hour and a half passed in a much smaller canoe powered only by two paddlers and a guide. The canoe had a shallow draft, and the gunwales were so close to the water that every careless motion threatened to capsize us.

As we travelled, every successive change of transportation, each more primitive than the last, drew us further and further from the modern world. Sitting in the canoe, gliding by a landscape of virgin rainforest, I could almost delude myself into believing that I had journeyed a thousand years into the past. The trip engendered a sense of duality, for the digital SLR in my hand kept pulling me back to the twenty-first century.

The culmination of our regressive journey came when the river we travelled opened into a small lake, and on its western shore, we could see the lodge where we would stay. The small patch of land had been carved from the jungle. All supplies arrived by canoe. There were no roads, nothing to connect it to the outside world except the waterway we had just traversed.

As we crossed the short distance to the lodge, our guide, Juan, cautioned us that the lake was not for swimming. Lurking in the water were things that could kill us. He listed several dangers: poisonous snakes, electric eels, anacondas, and then he described the black caiman.

I had seen many caimans in my travels, and I thought I knew what to expect. Most often, I’d seen them lazing on riverbanks. At night, I’d shone a light over the water and seen their eyes flash out of the darkness. I had always considered them to be the insignificant cousins of crocodiles—fearsome looking in detail, but miniature in size and hardly worthy of consideration. The black caiman, however, exceeded my expectations—frighteningly. Several large specimens inhabited the lake before the lodge, and Juan informed us that they could grow up to five metres long, sixteen feet. It was a sobering revelation, and I knew my trip would not be complete until I had seen one of these monsters.

Juan then cautioned us that we had to be especially careful at night. A concrete pier stretched out from the lodge into the lake, and at its end was the platform that we would use to climb in and out of the canoe. It was safe enough in the daytime, but in the darkness, the big caimans could be found slumped on its edge. A midnight stroll to the end of the pier could very well become a stroll to the end of one’s life.

Early the next morning, I watched a canoe launch from the pier and set off across the lake. The flat light of the newly risen sun was mirrored on the water, and the world could hardly have been more serene. The small boat took only moments to reach the opposite shore, and then it disappeared into the jungle. I felt a stir of unease; with nothing to mark its passing, the canoe might never have existed at all. Once again, I felt a sense of duality: in the blink of an eye, the pre-historic had reasserted itself.

At that moment, Juan came down to the pier to organize the morning’s excursion, and I considered the direction that his life had taken. He’d been born in the rainforest and had grown up hunting animals with a blow dart. (I had a difficult time wrapping my head around that reality.) Then the outside world had descended upon his village, and he had been yanked from the stone age into the space age. As a child, he had lived a role in The Gods Must Be Crazy. As an adult, he could watch that movie on his iPod.

We walked the length of the pier, stepped down into our canoe and set out from the lodge. We crossed the small lake, and then we too disappeared from sight. Very soon, we would come eye to eye with a black caiman.

Dip, rush, drip…the canoe slips through the black water. The jungle has wrapped around us. The air feels damp. We now move through shadow. I watch my companions, our paddlers, and our guide all search the gloom for wildlife. I can feel that familiar rush of adrenaline—what will we see?

At the front of the canoe, Juan leans forward and stares toward the bank. He’s noticed something. A bird calls down from the trees, but he mutters, “Toucan,” and dismisses it with a shake of his head. His eyes never waver. Then he points toward a fallen tree. In the water beneath, we can just see the head of the caiman.

The canoe slows. Then, with a stroke of a paddle, it stops. There are hushed exclamations of awe. Only the top half of the head is visible, little more than the eye and the ridge of brow above it. We see the suggestion of a body, but the dark water conspires to hide it from our view. It hardly matters; what we can see is mesmerizing. For a moment, two species regard one another in silence. Then cameras were levelled, and a frenzy of photographs swirl about the humid air. I snap the obligatory amount of pictures, then let my camera rest in my lap and savour the experience of exchanging a long look with that cold-blooded killer.

The eye—I struggle to find language adequate for its description. The word “alien” comes to mind, but that is merely an impression. I could liken it to marble cut and polished by that Michelangelo Evolution, but such a comparison would fail to capture its complexity and precision. The vertical pupil is at once beautiful and chilling.

The arc of brow above the eye captures my attention. It hardly seems organic—more like molded plastic or wind-sculpted stone, and the tiny segments that line the ridge remind me of pebbles. Like a miniature rainbow, they have a bit of an iridescent sheen that reflects a myriad of colours.

How wonderful it is to float there, so close, and study this creature. It is not a monster of fifteen feet (we will see one close to this length a few days later), but the encounter is nonetheless remarkable.

Such moments never last. Attention wanes, and we paddle away to explore another part of the river, eager for other experiences. On our return trip, we pass by that same spot, and the caiman has not moved. What alien patience and immobility. It seems frozen into that image of watchfulness, but I can imagine the explosive action that could shatter this illusion of calm.

We slip by, not unnoticed, but certainly regarded with reptilian indifference.

A short time later, we reach the lake and cross back to the lodge—our small outpost on the edge of the primordial past.

Kenneth D. Reimer

Amazon Page: http://www.amazon.com/author/kennethdreimer

Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/kenneth.d.reimer

Google+ Page: http://www.google.com/+kennethdreimer-writer

“Horizon of Sand: A Night on the Sahara”

Late afternoon, and the silence is almost absolute—so quiet, I can hear this pen scratching upon the page of my journal. Evening approaches, but the sun still burns hot. The air hangs heavy and still. I pause for a moment and study the world around me. I lay on the top of a low dune, and the next cresting wave obscures all that stretches beyond. The horizon is close; below and above its imaginary line, there is a contrast of simple immensities—sand and sky, hues of azure and gold, broke only by sparse patches of green. This is the northern edge of the Sahara Desert in the African country of Tunisia. Southward, the desolation extends beyond my comprehension.

Occasionally, the camels snort and shuffle. A little while earlier, they both dropped down onto the sand, rolling and thumping their legs against the ground. I watched the larger one, the one I rode today, rear back and chew on his shaggy rump. Somewhere behind the dunes and scattered scrub brush, there comes the muted sound of our guide as he searches for firewood.

On the rough blanket beside me, my companion, Lisa, is scribbling down her own impressions of the day.

And what a day it has been . . . .

Early that morning, we climbed into a louage—an inexpensive, long-distance taxi—and left the city of Gabes. The journey south to the desert lasted hours, and each mile that rolled beneath the wheels took us further and further into the world of the ancients, where people lived lives virtually unchanged from the times of their ancestors.

When we eventually arrived at our destination, both Lisa and I felt the uneasy stirring of apprehension. Our driver stopped in an open, barren expanse of sand, and where there should have been a guide waiting to escort us out into the desert, there was no one. Close to a hundred saddled camels milled about, but humans, there were none. At the centre of the expanse, we could see a makeshift shelter with walls of rough-cut branches and a roof of palm leaves.

The door of the louage slammed shut, the driver gave us a last look through the veiled windshield, then he drove off across the packed sand. We stood there alone, feeling somewhat like castaways on the ocean. In the middle of nowhere; we now had no transportation, could not speak the language, and we had no guide. There was nothing for it but to go to the hut and see what Fate had determined for us.

It was a scene out of Indiana Jones. But for a haphazard “bar” tucked into one end of the building, the interior or the shelter was open; the floor was sand. Long planks ran the along the walls and served as benches for the few locals gathered inside. These men stared as we entered. For certain, they didn’t see many like us, not there, not that far from the city. Long beards, faces weathered from the sun, wind and blowing sand, authentic desert garb—they could have been plucked from antiquity.

We could not communicate, but we were greeted with friendly smiles, and the somewhat imposing “bartender” motioned for us to sit down and wait (like we had any other options). Later, surprisingly, he prepared a meal for us to share. That is, for all of us to share: the bowl of couscous had three spoons: one for me, one for Lisa, and one for him.

We spent several hours in that shelter. We wrote in our journals, wandered about outside, mostly we asked one another what we had gotten ourselves into. The questions hung in the air: what are we going to do when the sun sets, and how are we going to get back to the city?

As it turned out, there was no need for worry. Eventually, our guide arrived, and we began our little trek on the Sahara.

There were five of us who set out from that shelter: myself, Lisa, our guide (who would walk the entire distance), and two single-humped camels. I didn’t catch the names of the camels, but our guide introduced himself as Amid (short for Mohammed). We thought that he spoke Arabic, but he could have just as easily been speaking Berber. Lisa speaks English and French; I speak English with a smattering of Spanish (mostly alcohol related). I also sling a mean Shakespeare, but so far this has not assisted me much during my travels. Luckily, Amid also knew a tiny bit of French, so minimal communication was possible. Mostly, however, we “spoke” with gestures, facial expressions, and a good deal of faith. Before we set off, Amid gave us both chesches, long, narrow strips of cloth that we wrapped around our heads and used to protect our faces from the sun and blowing sand.

Our two camels were fascinating. First off, they were huge beasts—my head scarcely reached the level of their humps. They also appeared somewhat alien. It seemed to me that their legs had one too many joints. When they lowered themselves onto the sand, they would first lurch forward, then lurch back, then once again settle forward to rest. It was a very curious evolutionary design, but no doubt somehow beneficial for animals that stride the desert sands, which, of course, explained the bizarre hump of flesh that adorned their backs. Of course, I had seen pictures, but the real thing was much more strange. By far the most peculiar aspect of those animals was their feet. The first that that come to mind—I’m not kidding here—was Star Wars. The feet consisted of a heel and two gargantuan “toes.” When the foot hit the sand, it flattened out to almost double its size, the desert equivalent of snow shoes—sand shoes.

I cannot comment on the demeanor of all the camels in Tunisia, but the two we rode displayed considerable manners. We had been told that camels stink, spit and bite; however, this was not the case. I shared a few amicable tete-a-tetes with Lisa’s mount, and it never showed anything but mild curiosity. Well, mild curiosity and very, very bad breath. The only instance where I questioned this favourable impression was when it first came time for me to dismount. The lurch backward was so abrupt that I found myself catapulted from my saddle and landing butt first on the packed sand, simultaneously bruising both my tailbone and my pride. All visions I had of myself as a modern Lawrence of Arabia dissipated in an ignoble grunt and a small puff of Sahara sand. Was it intentional? Did I see a smirk on that bestial countenance? This mystery will never be answered.

We spent half a day upon the desert, and even in this short duration of time, the Sahara showed us a variety of different faces. Our first hour out was not at all what I had envisioned; the low dunes were sculpted over baked sand that felt like chipped concrete. The sun blistered, and the land felt inhospitable. In the distance, a long, rocky hill dominated the sky, and we could see scattered huts on the its sloped shoulder.

An hour later, we entered the desert of my expectations. Paradoxically, the simplicity felt overwhelming, nothing more than sand and sky—granular wave upon wave, diminishing to a vanishing point. Purely for the experience of walking in the Sahara Desert, Lisa and I dismounted and made our way on foot. The sand was surprising. At times, it felt like icing sugar, so insubstantial that our feet sank calf-deep into the dune, and striding atop a thirty-foot ridge became hazardous.

This desire for experience earned us a moment of trepidation: at one point, Amid outpaced us and disappeared behind the dunes. We could follow his footprints in the sand—as long as no wind came to obscure that record—nevertheless, all our possessions were tied to the humps of the camels. We were on foot in the Sahara with no food, water, or transportation. How long would we last? Who would ever find us? But then, there he was, waiting patiently, silently, beyond the next slanted wall of sand.

Much later in the day, after enthusiasm and wonder had been replaced by aching muscles and tender butts, we entered an area were vegetation added blots of green to the landscape. Although we would not reach it, there was an oasis nearby. That landscape was not as dramatic as the ones we passed earlier, but it had a more welcoming countenance, and it was there that we would spend the night.

My long reverie is brought to an end when Amid informs us (with gestures and smiles) that our meal is prepared. Almost unnoticed, he has returned with wood, sparked a spindly fire and then cooked a desert meal.

We first eat a type of flat bread that he bakes in the embers of the fire. It has a hint of charcoal flavouring, but in that place, on that day, it’s about the best I’ve ever had. Amid also boils a stew. By now, the sun has set, so we cannot be certain just what is in this stew. We are starving, however, so we eat what is placed before us, and it is delicious.

After cleaning up—using sand to wash the dishes, Amid does something unexpected; he flips the cooking pot and begins to use it as a drum. Patting softly with both hands, he sings a song in Arabic. It sounds like a lament, but it could have easily been a story of love for his desert home. As he beats on the makeshift drum, the scrub fire illuminates the right half of his face and body. The other half is in silhouette, framed by the low, cloud-hazed crescent moon and a spray of stars. It is a moment that etches itself in my memory.

Lying on the dune, warmed by the fire, and with Lisa by my side, the moment feels mystical. The clouds thicken and obscure the night. We wrap up in our blanket and fell asleep on the open sand.

Hours later, a cough from Amid awakes us both. I lay there, lids closed, attempting to slip back into sleep, but Lisa whispers that I should open my eyes. The ceiling of cloud has disappeared, and we share a Milky Way as clear and deep as we’ve ever experienced. Polaris hugs the horizon, where some mist remains. To the south are constellations that we have never seen. We talk for a time, quietly.

But there, with the desert all around, the words seem both too much and not enough.

Eventually, sleep returns.

 

“Horizon of Sand: A Night on the Sahara” – December 12, 2014

Late afternoon, and the silence is almost absolute—so quiet, I can hear this pen scratching upon the page of my journal. Evening approaches, but the sun still burns hot. The air hangs heavy and still. I pause for a moment and study the world around me. I lay on the top of a low dune, and the next cresting wave obscures all that stretches beyond. The horizon is close; below and above its imaginary line, there is a contrast of simple immensities—sand and sky, hues of azure and gold, broke only by sparse patches of green. This is the northern edge of the Sahara Desert in the African country of Tunisia. Southward, the desolation extends beyond my comprehension.

Occasionally, the camels snort and shuffle. A little while earlier, they both dropped down onto the sand, rolling and thumping their legs against the ground. I watched the larger one, the one I rode today, rear back and chew on his shaggy rump. Somewhere behind the dunes and scattered scrub brush, there comes the muted sound of our guide as he searches for firewood.

On the rough blanket beside me, my companion, Lisa, is scribbling down her own impressions of the day.

And what a day it has been . . . .

Early that morning, we climbed into a louage—an inexpensive, long-distance taxi—and left the city of Gabes. The journey south to the desert lasted hours, and each mile that rolled beneath the wheels took us further and further into the world of the ancients, where people lived lives virtually unchanged from the times of their ancestors.

When we eventually arrived at our destination, both Lisa and I felt the uneasy stirring of apprehension. Our driver stopped in an open, barren expanse of sand, and where there should have been a guide waiting to escort us out into the desert, there was no one. Close to a hundred saddled camels milled about, but humans, there were none. At the centre of the expanse, we could see a makeshift shelter with walls of rough-cut branches and a roof of palm leaves.

The door of the louage slammed shut, the driver gave us a last look through the veiled windshield, then he drove off across the packed sand. We stood there alone, feeling somewhat like castaways on the ocean. In the middle of nowhere; we now had no transportation, could not speak the language, and we had no guide. There was nothing for it but to go to the hut and see what Fate had determined for us.

It was a scene out of Indiana Jones. But for a haphazard “bar” tucked into one end of the building, the interior or the shelter was open; the floor was sand. Long planks ran the along the walls and served as benches for the few locals gathered inside. These men stared as we entered. For certain, they didn’t see many like us, not there, not that far from the city. Long beards, faces weathered from the sun, wind and blowing sand, authentic desert garb—they could have been plucked from antiquity.

We could not communicate, but we were greeted with friendly smiles, and the somewhat imposing “bartender” motioned for us to sit down and wait (like we had any other options). Later, surprisingly, he prepared a meal for us to share. That is, for all of us to share: the bowl of couscous had three spoons: one for me, one for Lisa, and one for him.

We spent several hours in that shelter. We wrote in our journals, wandered about outside, mostly we asked one another what we had gotten ourselves into. The questions hung in the air: what are we going to do when the sun sets, and how are we going to get back to the city?

As it turned out, there was no need for worry. Eventually, our guide arrived, and we began our little trek on the Sahara.

There were five of us who set out from that shelter: myself, Lisa, our guide (who would walk the entire distance), and two single-humped camels. I didn’t catch the names of the camels, but our guide introduced himself as Amid (short for Mohammed). We thought that he spoke Arabic, but he could have just as easily been speaking Berber. Lisa speaks English and French; I speak English with a smattering of Spanish (mostly alcohol related). I also sling a mean Shakespeare, but so far this has not assisted me much during my travels. Luckily, Amid also knew a tiny bit of French, so minimal communication was possible. Mostly, however, we “spoke” with gestures, facial expressions, and a good deal of faith. Before we set off, Amid gave us both chesches, long, narrow strips of cloth that we wrapped around our heads and used to protect our faces from the sun and blowing sand.

Our two camels were fascinating. First off, they were huge beasts—my head scarcely reached the level of their humps. They also appeared somewhat alien. It seemed to me that their legs had one too many joints. When they lowered themselves onto the sand, they would first lurch forward, then lurch back, then once again settle forward to rest. It was a very curious evolutionary design, but no doubt somehow beneficial for animals that stride the desert sands, which, of course, explained the bizarre hump of flesh that adorned their backs. Of course, I had seen pictures, but the real thing was much more strange. By far the most peculiar aspect of those animals was their feet. The first that that come to mind—I’m not kidding here—was Star Wars. The feet consisted of a heel and two gargantuan “toes.” When the foot hit the sand, it flattened out to almost double its size, the desert equivalent of snow shoes—sand shoes.

I cannot comment on the demeanor of all the camels in Tunisia, but the two we rode displayed considerable manners. We had been told that camels stink, spit and bite; however, this was not the case. I shared a few amicable tete-a-tetes with Lisa’s mount, and it never showed anything but mild curiosity. Well, mild curiosity and very, very bad breath. The only instance where I questioned this favourable impression was when it first came time for me to dismount. The lurch backward was so abrupt that I found myself catapulted from my saddle and landing butt first on the packed sand, simultaneously bruising both my tailbone and my pride. All visions I had of myself as a modern Lawrence of Arabia dissipated in an ignoble grunt and a small puff of Sahara sand. Was it intentional? Did I see a smirk on that bestial countenance? This mystery will never be answered.

We spent half a day upon the desert, and even in this short duration of time, the Sahara showed us a variety of different faces. Our first hour out was not at all what I had envisioned; the low dunes were sculpted over baked sand that felt like chipped concrete. The sun blistered, and the land felt inhospitable. In the distance, a long, rocky hill dominated the sky, and we could see scattered huts on the its sloped shoulder.

An hour later, we entered the desert of my expectations. Paradoxically, the simplicity felt overwhelming, nothing more than sand and sky—granular wave upon wave, diminishing to a vanishing point. Purely for the experience of walking in the Sahara Desert, Lisa and I dismounted and made our way on foot. The sand was surprising. At times, it felt like icing sugar, so insubstantial that our feet sank calf-deep into the dune, and striding atop a thirty-foot ridge became hazardous.

This desire for experience earned us a moment of trepidation: at one point, Amid outpaced us and disappeared behind the dunes. We could follow his footprints in the sand—as long as no wind came to obscure that record—nevertheless, all our possessions were tied to the humps of the camels. We were on foot in the Sahara with no food, water, or transportation. How long would we last? Who would ever find us? But then, there he was, waiting patiently, silently, beyond the next slanted wall of sand.

Much later in the day, after enthusiasm and wonder had been replaced by aching muscles and tender butts, we entered an area were vegetation added blots of green to the landscape. Although we would not reach it, there was an oasis nearby. That landscape was not as dramatic as the ones we passed earlier, but it had a more welcoming countenance, and it was there that we would spend the night.

My long reverie is brought to an end when Amid informs us (with gestures and smiles) that our meal is prepared. Almost unnoticed, he has returned with wood, sparked a spindly fire and then cooked a desert meal.

We first eat a type of flat bread that he bakes in the embers of the fire. It has a hint of charcoal flavouring, but in that place, on that day, it’s about the best I’ve ever had. Amid also boils a stew. By now, the sun has set, so we cannot be certain just what is in this stew. We are starving, however, so we eat what is placed before us, and it is delicious.

After cleaning up—using sand to wash the dishes, Amid does something unexpected; he flips the cooking pot and begins to use it as a drum. Patting softly with both hands, he sings a song in Arabic. It sounds like a lament, but it could have easily been a story of love for his desert home. As he beats on the makeshift drum, the scrub fire illuminates the right half of his face and body. The other half is in silhouette, framed by the low, cloud-hazed crescent moon and a spray of stars. It is a moment that etches itself in my memory.

Lying on the dune, warmed by the fire, and with Lisa by my side, the moment feels mystical. The clouds thicken and obscure the night. We wrap up in our blanket and fell asleep on the open sand.

Hours later, a cough from Amid awakes us both. I lay there, lids closed, attempting to slip back into sleep, but Lisa whispers that I should open my eyes. The ceiling of cloud has disappeared, and we share a Milky Way as clear and deep as we’ve ever experienced. Polaris hugs the horizon, where some mist remains. To the south are constellations that we have never seen. We talk for a time, quietly.

But there, with the desert all around, the words seem both too much and not enough.

Eventually, sleep returns.

 

“Survival of the Weirdest”

Survival of the Fittest Weirdest

Several hundred kilometres off the coast of Ecuador, there rises an archipelago of islands known as the Galapagos. Initially, these islands gained fame due to Charles Darwin, who studied them during his fateful voyage upon the Beagle. Today, people journey to this World Heritage site because of the abundance and incredible diversity of its wildlife.

My reasons for travelling to the Galapagos were almost as diverse as the wildlife, but for the sake of this recollection, I would like to focus on just two of them. The first was that I wanted to walk in the footsteps of the man who penned the Theory of Evolution (with a respectful nod to Wallace). Few individuals have had such a profound influence—and created such enduring controversy—as the great biologist. Simply put, Darwin kicked butt: he threw a wrench into almost two thousand years of conventional thought, and he did it with the most understated document I’ve ever read—well, tried to read. (From the perspective of an English major, On the Origin of Species is as dry as week old Melba toast.) My second reason for travelling to the Galapagos was that I wanted to see a waved albatross.

Ironically, these two reasons would come to clash, and the bizarre behaviour of the albatross would leave me wondering if Darwin had overlooked some quirky loophole of natural selection.

In the Galapagos archipelago, the waved albatross can only be found on the island of Espanola, and, given that the albatross can remain in flight for an inconceivably long duration, the timing of one’s visit to the island is important. When I arrived, luck was with me, and a large colony of the birds was present.

I have to admit that my desire to see the albatross was more literary than it was biological. Ever since I read Coleridge’s “Rime of the Ancient Mariner,” I’ve wanted to experience this tragic bird for myself. In the poem, the ill-fated mariner kills an albatross—normally a portent of good luck. By doing so, he dooms his shipmates and is left to grapple with the resultant guilt.

Now, to a large extent, my perception of reality is determined by its depiction in poetry: first comes the poem, then comes the actual experience. (Doesn’t everyone do this?) Naturally, then, I anticipated seeing a bird equal to its reputation—a grim beast of forbidding aspect. What I actually witnessed could not have been more antithetical to my expectations.

I hate to admit this, but sometimes literary myth does not reflect biological truth. (Although I’ve listened for it, I’ve never heard a raven “quoth . . . nevermore.”) Contrary to my expectations, the albatross is beautiful—not scary at all. Adults stand over two feet tall and their heads are brushed with a delicate gold, richer than any precious metal.

As I walked amongst the colony of birds, it quickly became apparent that the processes of mating and preproduction were in full swing. (Perhaps the expression “swing” may be misleading here—albatrosses mate for life.) I saw pairs of lovers gazed google-eyed at each other, and I swear I caught a glimpse of entangled wings flash momentarily from behind a rock. (Modesty precluded closer investigation.) Scattered within the fields, lone mothers protected exposed eggs. What really surprised me, however, was their mating dance. It was one of the most peculiar things I had ever seen in the wild.

Darwin’s idea regarding the process of evolution was that natural selection determined which species (or individuals within a given species) would survive and flourish. Those with traits that were the best “fit” to a certain environment would be those most likely to survive within that environment—hence the expression: survival of the fittest. But what natural process could possibly have led to the mating dance of the albatross? Survival of the fittest? More like survival of the weirdest. How could Darwin have missed this?

En route to the Galapagos, I anticipated that I would experience a variety of emotions. After all, the process of life and death is daily played out upon those islands. I saw new born chicks hugging tightly to their mothers, and immediately after would stumble upon the fresh corpse of a young sea lion. Joy, sadness, wonder, awe. It’s all there.

What I didn’t expect was comic relief. I didn’t expect to laugh out loud. I’ve heard of sexual sparring, but the sword fight of the albatross puts even the most flirtatious co-eds to shame. I do not claim to understand what manner of evolutionary process led to the creation of such a ritual, but (with tongue firmly in cheek) I must say that Darwin got this one wrong.

(To see the video, please use the following link: Youtube.)

“Survival of the Weirdest” – November 27, 2014

Survival of the Fittest Weirdest

Several hundred kilometres off the coast of Ecuador, there rises an archipelago of islands known as the Galapagos. Initially, these islands gained fame due to Charles Darwin, who studied them during his fateful voyage upon the Beagle. Today, people journey to this World Heritage site because of the abundance and incredible diversity of its wildlife.

My reasons for travelling to the Galapagos were almost as diverse as the wildlife, but for the sake of this recollection, I would like to focus on just two of them. The first was that I wanted to walk in the footsteps of the man who penned the Theory of Evolution (with a respectful nod to Wallace). Few individuals have had such a profound influence—and created such enduring controversy—as the great biologist. Simply put, Darwin kicked butt: he threw a wrench into almost two thousand years of conventional thought, and he did it with the most understated document I’ve ever read—well, tried to read. (From the perspective of an English major, On the Origin of Species is as dry as week old Melba toast.) My second reason for travelling to the Galapagos was that I wanted to see a waved albatross.

Ironically, these two reasons would come to clash, and the bizarre behaviour of the albatross would leave me wondering if Darwin had overlooked some quirky loophole of natural selection.

In the Galapagos archipelago, the waved albatross can only be found on the island of Espanola, and, given that the albatross can remain in flight for an inconceivably long duration, the timing of one’s visit to the island is important. When I arrived, luck was with me, and a large colony of the birds was present.

I have to admit that my desire to see the albatross was more literary than it was biological. Ever since I read Coleridge’s “Rime of the Ancient Mariner,” I’ve wanted to experience this tragic bird for myself. In the poem, the ill-fated mariner kills an albatross—normally a portent of good luck. By doing so, he dooms his shipmates and is left to grapple with the resultant guilt.

Now, to a large extent, my perception of reality is determined by its depiction in poetry: first comes the poem, then comes the actual experience. (Doesn’t everyone do this?) Naturally, then, I anticipated seeing a bird equal to its reputation—a grim beast of forbidding aspect. What I actually witnessed could not have been more antithetical to my expectations.

I hate to admit this, but sometimes literary myth does not reflect biological truth. (Although I’ve listened for it, I’ve never heard a raven “quoth . . . nevermore.”) Contrary to my expectations, the albatross is beautiful—not scary at all. Adults stand over two feet tall and their heads are brushed with a delicate gold, richer than any precious metal.

As I walked amongst the colony of birds, it quickly became apparent that the processes of mating and preproduction were in full swing. (Perhaps the expression “swing” may be misleading here—albatrosses mate for life.) I saw pairs of lovers gazed google-eyed at each other, and I swear I caught a glimpse of entangled wings flash momentarily from behind a rock. (Modesty precluded closer investigation.) Scattered within the fields, lone mothers protected exposed eggs. What really surprised me, however, was their mating dance. It was one of the most peculiar things I had ever seen in the wild.

Darwin’s idea regarding the process of evolution was that natural selection determined which species (or individuals within a given species) would survive and flourish. Those with traits that were the best “fit” to a certain environment would be those most likely to survive within that environment—hence the expression: survival of the fittest. But what natural process could possibly have led to the mating dance of the albatross? Survival of the fittest? More like survival of the weirdest. How could Darwin have missed this?

En route to the Galapagos, I anticipated that I would experience a variety of emotions. After all, the process of life and death is daily played out upon those islands. I saw new born chicks hugging tightly to their mothers, and immediately after would stumble upon the fresh corpse of a young sea lion. Joy, sadness, wonder, awe. It’s all there.

What I didn’t expect was comic relief. I didn’t expect to laugh out loud. I’ve heard of sexual sparring, but the sword fight of the albatross puts even the most flirtatious co-eds to shame. I do not claim to understand what manner of evolutionary process led to the creation of such a ritual, but (with tongue firmly in cheek) I must say that Darwin got this one wrong.

(To see the video, please use the following link: Youtube.)

“The Crystal Maiden: Paparazzi for the Dead” – November 21, 2014

For the past forty-five minutes, our guide, Miguel, has been leading us deeper and deeper into the Actum Tunichil Mukal cave as it snakes into a mountainside in the Tapir Mountain Nature Reserve in central Belize. Up until this moment, we have hugged the banks of a subterranean river. Now Miguel tells us that it is time our paths diverge; the river will continue to wind its slow ascent into the darkness, but we must strike off in a different direction. Swinging his powerful flashlight above us, Miguel illuminates our new path—upward into the complex of dry chambers once considered sacred by the ancient Maya. Our ultimate destination is the Crystal Maiden, an eighteen year old girl, who, centuries before, was murdered by priests and left in this cold sepulcher of stone.

We pick our way over a large boulder and onto an overhanging ledge. As each of glances about, patches of quicksilver light chase one another through the darkness; the effect is dizzying. From the ledge, we scramble up a steep incline until we reach a level area. Once there, we retrieve our camera from the dry bag, and Miguel instructs us to remove our shoes. Those wearing sandals must pull on socks. The dry chambers are pristine and need to be protected. Even after nearly an hour of trudging in and out of the river, the oils on our skin would harm the cave’s delicate formations.

The floor of the first chamber resembles a Lilliputian landscape of dried out rice paddies. In actuality, we find ourselves walking upon a mosaic of travertines—small, terraced pools that are formed when warm water rich with calcium seeps onto a sloped surface. As the water cools, the calcium precipitates out of the water and accumulates on the underlying rock. Eventually, it forms rounded walls that hold in the water. Sometimes the resultant pools, such as those in Pamukkale, Turkey, are large enough to swim in. The ones in the ATM are tiny, and they have gone dry, but I still find the experience fascinating.

Miguel leads us through an opening into the next cavern, and I like we’ve begun to wander the halls of a gothic palace. Calcium chandeliers hang from the ceiling where a pre-historic Michelangelo has etched the limestone with alien designs. Chamber opens to chamber, each as haunting and magnificent as the last. One cavern is so spacious, it has been named The Cathedral, yet I am certain that no religious celebrations ever shone light on its expansive walls.

After some time, we come upon physical evidence of the ancient Maya. Set here and there in the upper chambers, there are clusters of ceramic pots. It is unearthly strange to travel an hour underground and then come across such sights. The pots have all been broken in some way, and Miguel informs us that the Mayans believed breaking a ceramic vessel would “free its spirit.” Depending on where they were placed, some pots are covered with a film of calcium—the result of resting a thousand years in dripping water of the cave. Their outlines seem somehow fuzzy.

Looking at them, I am struck with the incredible length of time that these displays have passed in darkness since the last Mayan left the cave. The flickering torchlight would have faded, then the echo of the sandals on stone would have also died. Utter night would descend, and the silence would only punctuated by the drip of water or the distant whisper of the river. A millennium of darkness, from A.D. 900 until the site was “rediscovered” by an outsider in 1970 (accounts vary regarding the date). The locals always knew the ATM was there, but as a sacred place, they did not disturb it. Having heard legends of what was hidden inside, simply seeing the cave entrance most likely terrified them.

Translated, Actum Tunichil Mukal means “the cave of the stone sepulcher,” and it is called this due to the grim purpose the Maya had for these caverns. Not only ceremonial pots “set free” within these mute walls. For decades, the Maya used the ATM as a site for human sacrifices made in honour of the rain god, Chak. Frequently, the victims were decapitated, and throughout the caves, lone skulls stare hollow-eyed at passersby.

Miguel knows the chambers so well, he can add a touch of theatrics to our small expedition—not that it is in anyway necessary. Unbeknownst to us, he maneuvers our group until we are standing beside a skull that is still hidden in the darkness. He directs our attention to the light of his torch, then he swings it in an arch until it comes to rest on this single skull resting on the corduroy rock. The effect is dramatic, and goose bumps prickle my arms. On that ancient, rock-blurred bone, we can see evidence of violence. The back of this person’s head had been stove in by a blunt object.

Along with the broken pottery, fourteen skeletons lie within the chambers. Similar to the pottery, most are calcium encrusted. In total, we see five individuals of both genders, ranging from fourteen years old to thirty-nine. The final victim we’ll visit is the Crystal Maiden.

We reach her place of internment after forty minutes of wandering through the dry chambers. It is a surreal, magnificent, and macabre experience. Against the far wall of the last chamber we enter, our flashlights illuminate an aluminum ladder reaching up to what appears to be the opening of a smaller cave. The ladder is shaky and does not seem very secure, but there is no way I am not climbing up to that alcove.

My wife and I both reach the top, then we crowd with the rest of our group into the small entrance to the cave. The back of the cave is roped off to keep the curious from disturbing the Maiden. Only five feet from where we crouch, she rests on her back on the cave floor. Limbs stretched wide, she faces in our direction. A short distance from her skeleton, there is another, this one of a child.

As if by reflex, we begin taking pictures, yet how particular it is to be a tourist to such a tragedy—to snap photos of a murder victim. We cluster like ghoulish paparazzi. Admittedly, the span of centuries offers a degree of separation, but my imagination easily draws me back through time. She knew what lay before her, this young virgin. She had received the “honour” of being chosen for the sacrifice, and her death would bring rain to nourish the crops and slacken the thirst of her people. But she was still just a child, and I’m certain that the only real truth she understood was that the priests escorting her into the cave were also going to be her killers.

The predominate theory is that the Maiden was an eighteen year old girl who was brutally beaten by priests (two of her vertebrae were crushed), then tossed to the back of the cave and left to die. The smaller victim may have been her child. It seems such a violent end—was this a sacrifice or a murder? It is a question that will never be answered. All we can be certain of is that her last moments were of fear and pain.

Her skeleton has lain so long in the Stone Sepulcher that, similar the ceramic pots in the outer chambers, the bones have become encased in calcium. Her image is somehow indistinct, as though she is covered in crystal hoar frost. She seems to sparkle in the torchlight. It is both beautiful and tragic. It has been hours of hiking through the strangest of terrain, but our final destination is worth the sweat and the chills.

A short time passes, and then we take our leave of the Maiden and the child. No one says much. We descend the ladder in silence. It is still over an hour away, but we know the sunlight awaits us.

It is not so for the Crystal Maiden. As our torchlight fades, and the sound of our exit passes in fading echo, night returns.

 

“The Crystal Maiden: Into the Underworld” – November 12, 2014

The Crystal Maiden: Into the Underworld

Lisa and I stand poised at the edge of the rock embankment and gaze down across the river. Opposite us, partially hidden by the jungle, we can see our destination, the entrance to the Actum Tunichil Mukal—the Cave of the Stone Sepulcher. Perhaps ten feet wide at its base, it curves up to a narrow cleft in the rock, and then widens once again, looking somewhat like an hourglass in painting by Salvador Dali. A few vines and creepers hang across the opening, for some reason reminding me of dreads on a Rastafarian. It’s an odd association; we’re in Belize, not Jamaica, and we’re a long way from the beach. The river below meanders from out this opening in the mountain, issuing from a spring deep within the cave. To enter the cave, we will need to swim the river and cross the pool that stretches back into the twilight. It is somewhat of a pleasant, pastoral vision, but knowing what lies in wait before us, I can’t help painting the moment in ominous shades. Past the waters, and deep within the darkness of the mountain, the Crystal Maiden spreads her arms in cold welcome.

I have to admit that I’m excited; the day is about to get surreal. Actually, day is about to turn into night.

Our short reverie is interrupted by Miguel, our guide, who comes to inform us that it is time to put our camera into a dry bag. I quite like Miguel. He’s knowledgeable, has sense of humour, and he’s enthusiastic. Normally, I try to avoid tours—they make me feel like a tourist—but the Actum Tunichil Mukal (ATM), located in the Tapir Mountain Nature Reserve, is protected, and no one gets into the cave without an authorized guide. (I should clarify: I am a tourist, I just don’t like to feel like one.)

Lisa and I pack our camera, then we scramble down the rocky bank and plunge into the pool. We’ve just hiked forty-five minutes through the jungle, and beads of sweat are beginning to dot my forehead. As soon as we enter the water, however, the heat of the day is forgotten. It’s downright chilly, and as I wade forward, it rises up to my chest. Above us, blue sky becomes occulted by stone, and we are now within the sepulcher of the Maiden.

We climb the opposite shore and immediately turn on our headlamps. Along with Miguel, Lisa and myself, there are five others, and our combined headlamps illuminate the small area where we now stand dripping. Miguel moves to the fore, and we head off into the darkness.

Almost immediately, just walking becomes an exercise in concentration, and where to look is a conundrum. My impulse is to study this unearthly realm. After all, the Maya believed this cave to be the entrance to the underworld, and it’s not often one can trek the passage of the dead. (At least not on a round-trip, as I certainly hope this will be.) Yet when I let my lamplight pan across the sparkling formations above, I bash my toe against a rock or twist on slippery stone. Luckily, there are myriad moments to pause and take in the alien beauty.

This first section of the cave is exhilarating. Mostly, we trudge along the riverbed, but sometimes we’re forced back down into the water—feet splash in ankle-deep pools, or we kick through knee-high waves of our own making. More than once, we’re in up to our neck in the freezing river. At such times, my feet flail at the invisible rock below, seeking any manner of purchase, and I cling to the cave wall, pulling myself further and further into the belly of the mountain. The slow current brushes my chin, pushing toward the light and whispering gently: Go back. Go back. You don’t belong here.

After half an hour, we come to a small waterfall, and the cave appears to end. Then Miguel shows us a tight opening above the falls, and he tells us that we have go through. One after the other, we climb the face of the miniature cascade and then squeeze up the narrow passageway. At the top of the falls, where river funnels into the crack in the rock, we each drop back into the river.

At times, we have to crouch down to crawl through small passages, cracking our helmets against the sloping ceiling. Just as often, we come upon spacious caverns where our torches barely illuminate the distant walls and ceiling. Everywhere we go, we are surrounded by incredible formations. Stalactites, stalagmites, columns, and pillow rocks hang everywhere. Pale under our weak headlamps, these formations erupt into colour when Miguel shines his powerful torch upon them. They sparkle with pinpoints of light and glow a beautiful, rich rust. Magnificent. I can’t imagine ever seeing better. Up close, the texture of the calcium formations is amazing. It resembles elephant skin (minus the coarse hairs). Very organic and very weird, especially when they drip with moisture. I stick my tongue beneath the bottom tip of a stalactite and taste the water as it drips down. It’s sweet.

Wading down the river, we notice slightly conical holes in the ceiling of the cave. Miguel says these are caused when the acidic secretions of bats eat away at the limestone. In effect, they create their own caves. We see them flying about; black upon black, their images are phantom-like, and their almost inaudible cries are ghostly. Twice they swoop by so close that they flash in the light of my headlamp. I’m grateful to the darkness; hopefully no one in the group will know it was me who screamed.

There are also insects in the cave—all a ghastly pale colour, and by a quirk of evolution, they all seem to look alike. There is a large cricket that resembles a spider. We spot a thing called a pseudoscorpian that also looks like a spider. And, finally, we see a spider that looks like, well, a spider. There is one spot along the river where we all have to take a handhold, and it is just below this handhold where the scorpion lies in wait. Luckily, none of us aggravate it enough to suffer a sting. One and all, even for insects, they are unconscionably ugly. I suppose that when you live in absolute blackness, good looks are not at a high premium.

We have hiked for perhaps an hour when we come to a fork in the road, and Miguel informs us that we now have to leave the river and begin to climb. Up until that moment, our path has taken us along the lower level of the ATM. It has been exhilarating, but it’s not enough; it’s not the reason Lisa and I journeyed to this location. In this mythical, underworld cavern of the dead, we seek a face to face audience with its most famous denizen. We’ve come to see the Crystal Maiden, and she resides in the chamber above.

(to be continued very soon)

“On a Sunny Day” – June 20, 2014

It was a sunny day.  Hot.  A very slight breeze drifted down the hill toward the sands, carrying with it the heavy silence of a village at rest.  The whole island must have grown quiet and still.  The man on the rooftop, who had been working with a jackhammer for the past hour, had finished his job, or taken siesta.  The single, neglected road that separated the beach from the rest of the white-washed, Greek town, lay unused, baking in the sun.

A pervasive stillness held the area, broken only by the repetitive whisper of waves upon the strand.  Whatever noise there was was strangely muted and quickly died away.

Stretched out on a towel, my face turned up to the warmth, I was gazing out along the length of the bay, finally beginning to relax.  My travelling companion lay beside me, reading.  I couldn’t remember when we had spoken last.  As I watched her slightly inclined head, her eyes slowly closed, then fluttered open sleepily.  There were couples and small groups scattered about us, all lazing beneath the sun.

Then I saw an old man come stepping onto the beach.  He was dressed in dirty and worn clothing.  What in years past may have been formal wear, now served as a testament to his poverty.  It was much too heavy for the heat.  His scuffed, black shoes kicked at the sand and left furrows in their wake.  He wore a hat that cast a shadow over most of his face.  Beneath the darkness, his skin was creased with deep lines.

He carried a rifle.

It was old, like he was, and it fit his appearance as much as he seemed out of place walking across the sand.  He grasped it with an awkward kind of delicacy, thrusting it before him as though he either feared it, or was directed by it to whatever fate awaited him.

I tried to turn away, but a fascination held me—his jutting head, his slouched back, his stiff arms ending in hooked hands; they all held a grim attraction for me.

It was an inconceivable thing.  People lay sun-tanning, and he lurched among them, carrying that gun.  I watched him, taken by the incongruity of it, and I became frightened by the realization that my safety depended on his decision not to shoot that rifle.  It was an awful thing.

He moved toward the water’s edge.  I could feel his intent, and it was ugly.  He was going to kill.

There was a ridge of sand by the shore, and I could not see over it to where the waves ended, nor could I see what was near them.  He motioned with his gun, jerking it in that direction, then he froze, standing stiffly.

A child came within sight, and I began to rise.

Suddenly, he hunched forward and fired the rifle.  He jabbed it in the air.  I had never heard a gun before.  It was not as loud as I thought it would be.  I was startled, and though my heart hammered in my chest, I couldn’t move.  I only watched him as he hurried forward and bent down to grab something.  A bird had exploded skyward, its wings beating wildly in the hot air.  I hoped that he had shot at that bird, but it escaped from him unnoticed.  I knew then, whatever it was, he had hit his target.

Four people, travellers like myself, had been strolling down the beach, searching for a place to lay their towels, and they had been oblivious to his presence.  Then the gun went off, one of them, a girl, spun about to face her companions.  She was shaken, and her expression terrified me.  For a brief, horrible moment, I believed that he had killed the child.  Then she lifted her unsteady hands and cried out to the others, her voice strangely broken.  “That man shot that dog,” she said to them.  She looked back and cried out, “Oh my God, he’s dragging it away; it’s not dead.”

Then his image shambled up and over the ridge of sand.  It was a dog, its one leg caught in his hand, another kicking in the air.

I felt a tremendous relief.  Selfishly, I wasn’t relieved because he hadn’t murdered the child.  It was that I had escaped the responsibility which society would have thrust upon me if he had committed murder.  Simply because I was there, I would have had to do something.

He just kept walking, dragging the dog along the sand.  After he had lumbered several yards, it stopped kicking.  It must have died.  Through it all, the dog hadn’t made a sound.  No one had done anything.  The bastard just walked away, and no one did anything.

We stared in silence, a different silence now, and we let him walk away.

The night before, sitting outside under the Mediterranean moon, I had eaten at a restaurant in the village.  That dog had come to my table looking for scraps.  It was lame, and I remembered it because of its missing leg.  I had scratched its neck, fed it a few morsels.  Perhaps a last kindness.

He dragged it off the beach and out of sight.

Later, walking back to the pension with strangers, we came across the track of its blood.  We could see the trench its weight had pressed into the sand; its blood left a thick trail along the road.  For a moment, incredulously, we discussed what had occurred, then we followed that line of blood.

A short distance away, it led to a horrible little shack.  There was a shotgun shell lying on the road.  It was a terrible place, and I got a sense of someone within that hovel who had been cut adrift from society.  Someone free from caring, free from our judgments.  I wanted to shout, throw rocks at the sad structure, do something to make him pay, to satisfy my own sense of cowardice and worthlessness, but I knew that he had the gun, and I was afraid of the gun.

What bothers me the most is not that he killed the dog; he may have done it for food—he looked that poor, what bothers me is that I had to see it.  When he jabbed the rifle in the air and shot the dog, it was brutal, naked ugliness.  When he dragged it away; it twitched, dying in his grasp.  He could as easily have murdered one of us.

I realized then that men do shoot other men like dogs on a beach.  He gave me that knowledge.

by Kenneth D. Reimer

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