Belmopan Page 5

  “Come on Bri! Hop in,” came the encouragement of my jovial and proud companion.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” I slurred, lifting my scuba tank over the remains of a dented and rusty tailgate. “Does it have seat belts?”

  “What do you need seat belts for?” he asked with a boyish grin. “We are close to the ground. Look, lowriders!”

  As I bent over to look at the wheels, there was barely six inches clearance from the ground to the frame. I shook my head; in this terrain we would need double the distance to keep our muffler; that was, if we had one?

  “Hear, listen to this,” as he turned the key. ‘Whomp, blup, blup, blup.’

  No muffler.

  “Won’t be taking many pictures of birds and wild life this trip, will I?” I chided at him.

  “At least not up close,” he recanted.

  As we made our way out of town, in a cloud of dust, I had my doubts we would make it to our destination.

  An hour passed and we were almost half way to our hotel in the town of Valladolid. I had never heard of the place, but was content, at this point, in letting Steve handle the travel arrangements. This would, for the time being, allow me the option of having someone to blame if the situation became less than tolerable. The roads, by all means, were better than I had expected, with the only real obstacles being the many bicycles laden with produce and family members. Their young children running alongside would yell through our open windows, trying to sell us anything they deemed salable. It was only when we had to turn off on the road’s dusty shoulder, or on to the not-sowell traveled paths that the dust clouds that trailed us, billowed in leaving us choking and teary eyed. It became a continuous jockeying and choreography to out-do the relentless, dust clouds. Needless to say, when we arrived at our destination, none of the locals gave us a second look as tourists, due to our appearance resembling that of a number of workers on any given day.

  Crawling from the front seat, I stood and looked about to the quaint colonial facades of the buildings that lined the perimeter of the main plaza. At the far end I could make out the cross-pinnacled spires of Cathedral de San Gervasio.

  “All right, ay!” came the call from Steve as he stepped from behind the steering wheel to the front of the vehicle and started to brush himself off.

  As I looked toward him, the billows of dust gently drifted away in the bright sunlight. With hat in hand, he banged his thighs releasing even more clouds. His teeth shone exceptionally white beneath a blackened upper lip that trailed in streaks to his nostrils. I began to laugh at his appearance till I realized I too would be painted with the same brush.

  “Yeah, great!” I returned to his whimsical display of fortitude at our arrival.

  “Now, if I remember,” he stammered, “We have to find the ‘el Meson del Marques’.”

  Turning around and pointing to the flat-fronted, stucco building, with multiple doors facing the street, just across the roadway, “Is that it?” I questioned, knowing full well the answer.

  “Good aren’t I,” he boasted as he retreated to the back of the jeep.

  Grabbing my camera bag from behind the seat, I slowly walked to toward the hotel brushing myself off all the way, trying to disperse as much of the dust as I could. On entry to the small office, just up several worn marble steps and off the main foyer, I approached the Mayan receptionist who beamed with delight at my arrival, but sobered instantly at my visage.

  “Hola senor, may I help you?”

  “Si, I have a reservation, I think? The name is Alexander.”

  “Ah, Si senor, we have you here for three days in a deluxe room.”

  “Deluxe! I responded surprised looking back toward Steve through the open doors. “Yes, that will be fine. With two beds I hope?”

  “Si, that will be sixty U.S. pour favor.”

  “Now?”

  “Si.”

  Steve came sauntering in with bag in hand and a weight belt strung over his shoulder.

  “Couldn’t you have left that in the truck?” I asked.

  He shrugged, “It is better to be safe than sorry.”

  “Yeah, I suppose. We will have to bring all of the gear in for the night.”

  He nodded in anguish.

  “Senor, your car can go in the compound at the back,” the receptionist chimed over hearing our conversation. “It is very safe and is locked at night.”

  “Great!” I replied looking back to Steve and said quietly, “Perhaps we can cover our gear up with a blanket to hide it.”

  “Uno memento, while I see if the rooms are ready. If you will wait, I will have someone take you upstairs.

  Within moments, a young man, not more than eighteen, grabbed several of Steve’s’ bags and nodded for us to follow him up the stairs.

  Entering the foyer, we were overcome by the quaintness of the Old Spanish hotel with tall, pillared archways, and high ceilings that skirted the immediate dining area. Large, wooden candelabras, adorned with smoked-glass cups that hid the modern convenience of light bulbs, hung from unhewn, log, ceiling joists. An open, wrought-iron fenced-in courtyard, to the left as we entered the restaurant area, was filled with plants and a stone fountain that sprinkled and spattered its contents from tier to tier giving the ambience a romance beyond our need. Outside its perimeter, white, sheeted tables, adorned with candles and sculptured napkins, awaited the evening’s patrons, with a crispness that was only surpassed by the two, young waiters posing motionless, attentive to their servitude.

  “How much are we paying for this?” I asked, straining to see the swimming pool beyond the gated courtyard.

  “What do you mean, we?”

  That night, I sat down to a meal of tortillas, refried beans and a tasty concoction of tomatoes and jalapeno peppers that washed down well with some local beer. As we talked about our desired itinerary for the next day, at the table across from us, a lone, middle-aged, black man with a sparse mustache and beard that graced his bony jaw line, nibbled on salad and pieces of enchilada. Every time there was mention of cenotes, and how we would precede with the dive arrangements, his attention would perk in our direction. It was not long after the completion of our meal that he approached our table and interrupted us with an apology.

  “Excuse me,” he stammered. “I could not help but overhear your conversation. I assure you, I was not eaves-dropping, but in this open space it is hard not to hear the immediate conversation next to you.”

  “Oh, I hope we weren’t talking to loud,” I stated getting up from my chair, towering over the slight man to greet him.

  “No, no,” he stammered. “I have done much research in this area. The cenotes are a passion of mine and have spent many hours studying the artifacts and remains found in them.”

  Steve looked up at me with a glint in his eye. “Would you like to join us for coffee?” I gestured, pulling a chair from his table.

  “That would be nice, thank you.”

  “What exactly is it that you do?” Steve asked boldly, without introduction.

  Getting seated properly across from him and looking at him directly, I reached out my hand, “Brian Alexander, and this is Steve Grayson,” nodding to my brother-in-law.

  He took my hand firmly and gave it a shake, then turned to Steve who sported a grin.

  “Doctor Magnus,” he stated directly, reaching out his hand, “but call me Magnus, if you like.”

  I turned to get notice of the waiter, who stood in the archway that opened to the bar and directed him to our empty, coffee cups.

  “I was born in Buffalo,” Magnus stated emphatically, thinking to assure us of his status, “and started doing work with the university, of the same name, many years ago. I came down to study the ruins and native culture. It has been most interesting for me, and my colleagues, to continue here, and have been back only on several occasions to deliver artifacts.”

  “Is that a fact,” Steve returned, rubbing his chin.

  Just then, the waiter came up, “Café?”<
br />
  “Si, tres,” I replied with a smile. “Gracias.”

  He poured the three and headed back to the arch to stand at his post.

  “You will be diving here, did I not hear you say?” Magnus asked.

  “Well, we are not all that certain yet, we have just got here, but we were thinking about trying to find a site and taking a look.”

  “Well, be careful if you do. It is against the law to dive the cenotes, and authorities are not as lenient as they used to be in regards to the archaeological sites in the area. You could receive stiff fines, or even jail terms now, if you are caught removing any artifacts, as insignificant as they may seem.”

  “I thought if you received permission, it would be OK,” I asserted, sitting firmly back in my chair.

  “At one time you could,” Magnus stated with a low voice and little emotion. He took a sip of the black swill brimming to the edge of the small, ceramic cup, “but no longer, since all of the holes are now considered of archaeological value. But, if you know the right people,” he stated with a bit of a smile, “there are still ways.”

  Steve and I looked at each other noting the implication.

  “So, there is no way we can do recreational diving in the area, “Steve asked, shifting slightly in his chair.

  “Well, not here at any rate,” he replied.

  “How long will you be staying in Valladolid, Doctor?” I asked, taking a sip on my coffee.

  “Till morning,” Magnus replied, getting up from the table and leaving his half-finished coffee. “I am doing a little research in the jungle not far from here. Perhaps, we shall meet again. Thank you for the coffee.” With that, he gave a gentle nod and left through the tall, rounded archway to the rear gardens.

  “Well,” commented Steve, swirling the coffee in his mouth. “What do you think?”

  “It certainly changes things a little, but I would still like to take some photos, if at all possible.

  “Good. Me too! We will have to leave early in the morning if we are to get any diving in.”

  Leaving several bills on the table, we gave the waiter a nod and followed Magnus out into the open garden and up the stairs to the rooms above.

  It must have been barely four when the first cocka-doodle-doo pierced the morning air. The sun was still not up as my feet touched the floor and I sat peering through the bamboo slats that graced the window of the room. The shutters, on the outside, remained open to allow a breeze and the odd mosquito through. Steve snored lightly and was oblivious to the morning’s initiations. Grabbing my pillow, I lobbed it at the prone lump that lay across the room with no more of a successful response than a primordial grunt.

  “Come on man, wake up!”

  “Alright already,” he replied from beneath the sheets. Not more than twenty minutes passed before we had loaded the necessary equipment into the open trunk of the jeep. Not wishing to arouse attention, we began pushing our vehicle out of the compound and on to the street. Along the narrow streets of town, we began to notice small groups of locals cluttered by the roadside. They watched intently as we pushed our way passed till we encountered another group of wayfarers wishing to give us a hand pushing our truck. Within moments, we had a dozen eager and willful helpers assisting us to get from the hotel area, unnoticed…..

  The drive was dark and secluded, and within the hour we were driving passed the gated area of the service entrance to Chichen Itza with no sign of a guard to stop us. The road beyond the small, stucco buildings was very rough and almost not navigable in the low jeep. As the sun was beginning to rise, we turned the windshield wiper on to remove the dust from the glass and view more clearly the tall temple called ‘El Castillo’ (the castle). Looming through the trees to the right that separated the main compound from the service area, the shadow of the principal structure gave an ominous, foreboding aura to the surroundings. Shadowy structures of the closer ‘Ball Court’ played tricks with our eyes; shrubs and vagrant stelae peered back at us as if waiting for the summoned ancients that lay-in-wait to sacrifice the loosing opponents. With a scribbled, napkin map in hand, retrieved from a bellicose cab driver, we wearily proceeded down the rocky roadway. Not at all sure how far we could take the jeep, we knew if we persevered and got close enough to the cenotes, we could make a go of it. At the roads final end was a wooden building used to service the cenotes. Backing up as close as we could to the line of trees by the path, we crawled out of the short jeep and took a closer look at the exercise we were about to embark. Not knowing how far the site was from the edge of the compound, we loaded up as much equipment as we could. After two minutes of slugging over hilly terrain, we came across a small, stone building beside an open pit approximately one hundred and fifty feet across. As we peered over the edge, down some twenty plus feet, we began to wonder whether we were nuts.

  “Did you bring enough rope?” I queried, not bothering to take my eyes off of the steep slope and overhang of limestone rock.

  “Yeah, it is back in the car,” Steve replied, sweat breaking from his brow.

  “I’ll go get it. Did you remember the security line?” I asked.

  “Yeah, it’s here.

  By the time I returned, extra rope and camera equipment in hand, Steve had already prepared the scuba equipment on several blankets close to the edge. He had moved around a little further to the left in a relatively sheltered area with a few trees for protection. The sun was just breaking the horizon as we donned our light, neoprene suits first.

  “Ok! Who goes first?”

  “What do you mean?” Steve asked, as he struggled with his tank over his shoulder.

  “One of us needs to go first to stack the equipment at the bottom so we can crawl down the rope.” I suggested.”

  “That’s a good idea. You go first.”

  Struggling down the near vertical face for some time with my mask around my neck and fins draped over my arm, I eventually hit the water’s edge, just below a thin ledge above the surface. I could barely stand on it, so I slid gently into the water and stacked the equipment on the ledge and waited for the tanks from above. Giving a shiver as the trickle of cool water found its’ way down my spine, I laid back and donned my flippers.

  “Ok Steve, start lowering.”

  One by one the tanks, belts and camera came over the edge and filled the thin out-cropping quickly. Once all was down, Steve slowly maneuvered the steep slope and came to rest alongside me in the water. I took note of the large knots down the length of the rope, secured at the bottom to ensure our safe return to the top some twenty-four feet above. Within moments, my tank was secured and the small safety-line, our life-line back to the surface, was in place. Bobbing up and down just below the surface to adjust my buoyancy, I looked down into the dark abyss, camera in hand. After a few moments of quiet reflection, Steve came along beside me. Signaling him back to the surface, we both ascended.

  “Don’t forget Steve, the floor of the pit will be very silty. Try and stay off the bottom and keep your legs up so when you scissor, you are pushing the water ‘awayyy’ from the silt.”

  He gave me the ‘Ok’ and we let the air out of vests to start the descent. It was difficult to tell visually how deep we were going due to the gentle slope of the walls away from us under the overhang we had previously scaled. The visibility near the surface must have been fifty feet, but no more, due to the greenish algae; as we got deeper, the light of the early morning sun faded quickly. I had always presumed the water in the cenotes was crystal clear, but I suppose that would be determined by the amount of current that flowed through the network of tunnels throughout the limestone rock, and that flow would depend on the amount of rain they had had lately, which was none. I lit the lamps to my camera, and watched as the tunnel became illuminated to an endless hole of blackness some yards ahead. Behind us, the little security-line floated aimlessly as we continued down into the further reaches of the hole. Our exhaust bubbles lazily floated up, growing larger like rolling donuts the further they as
cended.

  After several moments, the slope flattened out and it was as if we had entered a large cave. The silt and leaf refuse began to stir as we settled close to the floor. A quick look at my depth gauge showed we were close to forty feet below the surface and enclosed in complete darkness apart from my lamps illumination. Steve approached a stick extruding from the silt and attempted to pull it from its’ resting place. At exactly that moment, the connection to the camera lamps faltered and we were temporarily in complete darkness. Within seconds, my fingers had found the delinquent connection and Steve was illuminated once again holding what appeared to be a femur bone. Startled by what he was holding, he dropped the bone and kicked his legs, which stirred, up a cloud of silt. Trying to avoid the cloud, I put my hand down into the silt and got my finger stuck on a rock and pulled it up only to find my finger was stuck in the eye socket of a skull. Panicking, I tugged at the skull and almost dropped my camera, which in turn loosened the connection, and once again we were in complete darkness. Looking up to the haze of light above us, I could just make out Steve bolting madly along the safety line heading for the surface. Hyperventilating slightly, I gathered my thoughts and played with the connection on the light yoke and once again was able to see. Nothing was visible through the eye of the camera apart from bright clouds of silt billowing lazily. Slowly, I proceeded to the surface behind Steve. The dive was over.

  As we broke the surface, the sun was brightly reflecting off the distant wall. The shadow, cast below the walls, accented the severity of the overhang. At first glance, I wondered if this was the same place we had descended into, but the rope was still where we had left it. Steve was near the shore attempting to put his weight belt on the thin ledge. Still trying to catch his breath, he rested periodically floating on his back with his tank regulator dangling beneath his head.

  “Did you see that?” he asked exasperated.

  “Yeah, I have it on film. At least I think I do.” I slowly swam to the shore to rest the camera on the ledge. “I think that is it for now.” I submitted, securing the equipment to the outcrop.