Written in Stone

by Jennifer Silva Redmond

My pilgrimage to an ancient city was begun unknowingly, even haphazardly. After a year spent painting and writing on our sailboat in Mexico, my husband and I were headed back to where art meets commerce New York Cityvia the Panama Canal. In March we sailed into Puerto Angel, a quiet fishing village south of Acapulco. Consulting our map, we saw that just beyond the mountains lay Oaxaca, one of the old colonial cities of Mexico, famed for its beauty and its nearby ruins. We immediately decided on an inland journey to see some of Mexicos historic and prehistoric treasures. A week later Russel and I watched through scratched glass as the stately buildings and tree-lined boulevards of Oaxaca slowly gave way to fields and hills. For two days we had strolled Oaxacas streets, browsing the shops and listening to music in the plaza, and now it was time to see the ruins of Monte Alban. The tour bus was immediately caught in a traffic jam at the edge of town, and sat, gridlocked, half of its windows wide open to the warm air, diesel smoke, and blaring horns, and the other half as stubbornly closed as ours was. The seats around us were filled with impatient travelers from all over the world complaining in their native tongues about the delay. Beside us was another bus, returning from the morning market with crates, bushels, and livestock strapped, tied, and balanced upon its roof. A goat stood upon the roof bleating piteously as the slow minutes ticked past, and I began to wonder if wed made a mistake.

Finally, the cars and buses began to move, and soon we were speeding up a winding road as the driver tried to make up for lost time. At the top of the mountain we descended slightly into a wide, verdant plateau and the bus stopped in a dirt parking lot at the base of a grassy hill. The driver directed us up to the sites information center where a guide gave out maps and told us not to buy anything from the vendors who would approach us in the ruinshidden from sight beyond another steeply sloping hillside. Glad to be out of the bus, we two quickly headed up the hill ahead of the group, and were somewhat winded by the time we reached the summit. We found ourselves standing atop the outer walls of a stone city, for on that last ascent wed been climbing the sides of its fortifications. The crumbling gray walls marched away before us, encompassing a vast expanse of grass, overgrown buildings, and walkways before joining at the base of an immense pyramid, as high as the one upon whose base we now stood. It was cooler up here, and a breeze lifted the hair off my sweaty brow. Far away I saw blue-gray mountains, some with snow like icing on their peaks, ringing the high green valley that surrounded us. Beyond the mountain ranges were deep, white banks of cloud, which seemed held in place there, for above us the sky was as blue as some celestial sea. Without speaking, Russel and I clasped hands and walked through a narrow stone gate toward the center of the pyramids base, then turned and began to climb the steep stairs. Each of the steps had a slight dip at its center, where generations of holy men, soldiers, prisoners and slaves had placed their sandaled, booted or bare feet while ascending the awesome giant. Silently we stepped up and up, our sneakers making no sound on the stone, the voices of people behind us falling away as we climbed higher. Even with the altitude and the steepness of the stairs, my breath came easily, but my head and chest seemed to lighten with each step until at the top I was almost faint. Turning to survey the scene spread before us, I sank down upon a slab of rock whose surface had seen offerings long before written history. Below us the two dozen other visitors had dispersed into the immensity of the grounds, their tiny forms nearly lost among the low walls and tall grass. One family was climbing the staircase toward us, and when they reached the top we headed back down to explore the rest of the city. When Russel and I passed the others, we noticed everyone was talking in tones were hushed and reverential. In fact, there was little sound at all as people climbed and wandered aboutlittle laughter and none of the calling and shouting that often accompanies large groups out of doors. Even the children seemed amazed and some stood quietly staring, bemused by the awesome scale of the place. We walked wide pathways of gray rock, between high walls and above ledges, pausing to examine the intricate carvings and cunningly laid stonework at every turn. Plazas and boulevards, courtyards and playing fields were ruined or overgrown, but even ringed as they were with tumbledown stone fences the grand design was abundantly cleara city of open spaces, of markets and meeting halls, but one where private spaces could be found for quiet contemplation or conversation. It was eerie to stand alone in the middle of a huge central mall that once must have teemed with vendors and shoppers, with stalls full of colorful fruits and vegetables. Sitting on the raked stone bleachers that overlooked the ball court, I could easily imagine its stands filled with spectators joyously cheering on their favorite players. During the bus ride, I had read a pamphlet that told what little is known about Monte Alban. We know it was inhabited by the Toltecs, the Olmecs and the Aztecs, though perhaps other peoples that modern scientists have not yet named had lived here as well, earlier than those we can prove, or between those generations of use we are sure of. The booklet made it clear that there was much that no one is sure of how the incredible structures were built, and by whom, the meaning of some of the bas-relief carvings of people on the inner walls (they look like dancers, but are believed to be diagrams of physical ailments or maladies for future physicians reference), and chiefly, when the original inhabitants left, and why.

All these facts circled inside my head like the eagles that flew so high in the vault of blue above me. None of it meant anything as I gazed unseeingly at the sky, feeling my pulse race with more than exertion. This place had all the mystery of Stonehenge and Easter Island, but there was more here than that. This had been a city and it still felt populatednot with historybut with life. Living people, families, had lived in these rooms, walked these paths, watched as games were played in these ball fields. And they worshipped here, certainly, as well. Brought wine, corn or cattle, and yes, undoubtedly, human beings the chosen ones whose blood would spill for the pleasure of the gods. We cant begin to understand why they believed as they did, but that this is a temple to the gods those people chose to worship there seems little question. Ive been to a number of churches and cathedrals in my life, some modern, some hundreds of years old. Only a few of them have the simple, wonderful quality of a holy spacea quiet that is peaceful and serene, and a sense, even when the buildings themselves are empty, of fullness. Ive always believed that feeling comes from the quality of the time spent in it, in individual and group prayer, at weddings, christenings and funerals, over the years. Many years of love and belief, of faith, can permeate a physical place and persist long after its inhabitants are gone, whether it is a Native American hogan in a desert or a soaring Gothic cathedral. This ancient vessel of a city, hewn by hand from native stone high in the mountains of Mexico had been full for centuriesthe feeling I had there can only be described as holy. No visions appeared before me in my hours at Monte Alban, no heavenly voices spoke and I didnt feel any need to pray or to leave offerings. Though the blood of some of the cities ancient inhabitants may run through my veins, passed down by my Mexican grandmother, I didnt feel the need to research my roots or to embrace mi raza any more than usual. As it wasnt any sort of inspired pilgrimage that took physical perseverance beyond enduring a couple of hours in a crowded bus, I cant even take much credit for achieving it. But something did happen to me there, something unexpected and ephemeral. Standing there on those centuries old stones with the wind of that timeless valley in my face, I saw what humans had created out of a simple need to aspire to that which was greater than they. They carved beautiful designs into solid rock and built their majestic temple as far into the sky as they could, and they worked, played, and danced in the shadow of it. They lived and worshipped and they believed, and the stones they laid are still there to prove it. Not long after that inland trip, Russel and I motored our sailboat into the first of the locks that make up the Panama Canal. That first locking-through was so full of things to attend to that the physicality of the Canal didnt sink in at allother than to think, boy, is this big. After a couple more locks, I began to relax, confidant in the handling of our boat by the hired captain and helpers. Moving into the last of the Pacific-side locks, I could look around and appreciate the labor that had gone into building this modern wonder of the world. Gazing up at the sheer cliffs of cement that lined the sides of the lock as the small figures high above made us fast, watching the level quickly rise in the huge square vat of water, half salt and half fresh now, and then hearing the grinding of the monstrous gears as the immense doors slowly parted to reveal a waterway, a channel cut by human hands through the earth of a continent to join two oceans. As we moved out into the Canal, between the cliffs of red clay, I was struck by the power of the human mindthe ability to conceive of a goal and to make it a reality. Perhaps that is why we will journey to pyramids and aqueducts, cathedrals and bridges, catacombs deep below the ground, great temples in the middle of vast deserts, and statues or shrines carved from rock atop towering peaks. Seeing them, touching wood, steel, or rock, engenders a response that resounds within us. If this could be done, what task cannot be? If faith can build this monument, belief this city, determination that bridge, then there is nothing that that we, working together, cannot achieve.

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