Wanderings: My Secret Pyramid

Somewhere in Mexico -- There are thousands of these places all over the country. No road signs point the way and there are no gates, guards or visitor centers. No maintenance crew keeps things neat and trimmed. Few tourists ever find them. And in most cases, these places remain much the same as they have been for centuries.

I have a secret pyramid. When I visit, it's all mine. I will tell you about it, but I am not going to say just where it is.

Of course it's not really a secret. It's located close to a highway and people live nearby. They drive cattle past it every day, and work in their milpas, cornfields, which dot the surrounding area. However few who live here give the pyramid much thought. It has always been there. Just like the sky and hills, the rocks and the trees, it's part of the landscape.

The government knows about it, and apparently official archaeologists once came out and took a look. But in a country with limited funding for such things and countless ancient sites scattered over tens of thousands of square miles, this one has probably never been thoroughly surveyed, and is unlikely ever to be excavated, restored and developed as a public park. To be truthful it's small, not awe-inspiring when compared to other well-known Mexican pyramids, and represents a lost and little-understood culture.

When I visit this pyramid, I normally have the place completely to myself. I always feel that I am the only one who cares about it as much as I do. I guess that's one reason why I like it so much.

I first came out here about a dozen years ago, and since I pass through the area from time to time, have visited the pyramid six or eight times since.

On my very first visit I went with a couple of locals who offered to show me around. The pyramid is actually one of several pre-Colombian structures in the complex, but the others are in such ruinous contition that it is hard to make out what they were. That day I enjoyed the hike. I climbed to the top, admired the view, and took a few pictures. Then afterward I found myself thinking about the place and felt the need to go back and spend more time there.

So I went back by myself. From where I normally stay when in the area, it is about an hour's hike through a pueblo, down into a small canyon full of pillar-like rock formations, jumping the stream at the bottom, and up the other side into another small pueblo. As I walk I occasionally pass traditionally-dressed indigenous women, often accompanied by children, carrying bundled firewood or tending small herds of animals. It's hard to get lost on these trails; foot traffic over many hundreds of years has worn deep grooves into the rock.

Passing through the pueblo only takes a couple of minutes. On the far side, an expanse of corn fields on both sides of the road opens a vista of the hills and valleys in all directions. Soon you climb a rise. As you come over the top, a hill comes into view. It is covered in shrubs and small trees, and at first looks like just another hill. Then you notice a level row of stonework near the top, and the design of the structure becomes apparent.

Sometimes, local children come out of their houses or materialize from the brush to shyly peer at me. The braver ones may approach and try to sell me artifacts they have found in their fields. I politely look at what they have to offer, shards of pottery, blades and points of translucent obsidian, and small objects of clay or stone. I then explain to the children that although they are very nice, it's illegal for me to possess artifacts like these, so I can't buy. The children speak Spanish poorly, having grown up speaking an indigenous dialect, so I am not sure that they understand exactly why I won't purchase their treasures. They are disappointed. They are reluctant to have their picture taken. After this exchange, the kids wander off and leave me to myself.

A local child displays obsidian points found near the pyramid.

From this point I am left alone, free to feel the wind, sun and rain, and enjoy animals, plants and the scenery. No one comes near as I wander, kicking at pottery and obsidian fragments scattered in the dust, the abundant litter of an ancient civilization. No one accompanies me as I eventually climb the ruins and sit on the top of this former spiritual center of a long-forgotten culture.

Nothing much happens at the pyramid. Sometimes I take pictures, write or sketch there. Mostly I just sit and watch my surroundings. It's a beautiful and quiet place with a solidity about it that few others in my experience possess. That's what it has to offer and that, it seems to me, is its great value.

The secret pyramid is a touchstone, a pilgrimage for me. It has become one of a small number of very special places in the geography of my life, places where I feel connected, content, and at peace. I suspect I will keep returning to it, from time to time, as long as I am able to do so.

Wanderings: Magic Places

Shrine at los manantiales of San Pablo

As time passes, I travel far less and yet gain more from each experience. I log fewer miles, and do them more slowly. I often explore closer to home. I take fewer pictures as I go, preferring to use all my senses to gather impressions and memories of a place.

In addition, now when I visit a place I spend more time there. What I find as a result of this simplification is that I see, feel, hear and sense more about the places I do visit, and take much more home with me from the experience than I used to.

Anyone sensitive enough to the surrounding environment occasionally stumbles across special places where there is an atmosphere, a presence, a spirit, perhaps an aura, that lends them a magic quality.

Conseulo and son Marco

During my July visit to Querétaro, I took an afternoon hike in the hills above the tiny pueblo of San Pablo, Amealco, located near where I teach summer school.

I went with a small group of other teachers, led by San Pablo resident Consuelo, who is an indigenous Otomí woman, a local teacher and our co-worker. Also walking with us and helping us gather firewood along the way were her young sons Carlos and Marco Antonio.

Our goal was los manantiales, or the springs, which supply water to the pueblo. The flow is divided. Part of the water runs in its natural course. The rest is confined by pipe and in a narrow, old rock and concrete channel from the source, at the top of a valley, down past fields where small sluice gates allow its diversion for irrigation, and then into the pueblo itself.

We climbed above San Pablo on a rocky, sometimes muddy path, which follows the channel up through tall old trees that cast a deep shade on this cloudy afternoon. Along the trail and in clearings, large spiky maguey plants and clumps of yellow, pink and blue wildflowers occasionally relieved the gloom. Under the dense forest canopy the ground is covered by a thick matte of brown leaves which makes the place seem soft despite the presence of rocky outcroppings.

As we climbed, a sudden chill and dark clouds threatened an imminent downpour, but beyond a few errant drops, the enveloping walls of the small valley held the storm just far enough away to keep us dry. The shelter of our valley notwithstanding, the deep bass rumble of distant thunder was powerful enough to vibrate our insides from time to time.

As we approached the spring, there was no mistaking that we had arrived. In the clearing around the water source, the people have constructed a tiny shrine, painted sky blue and adorned with crosses and strings of starlike decorations which extend into the surrounding trees that arch overhead. It is a protected, intimate and refuge-like place.

It is wonderful after the climb to kneel down next to the shrine where clear, cool water burbles from the ground, and drink from this ancient water source. Countless beings have done this before me. Ruins of earlier civilizations in the vicinity date back close to 2000 years. From the presence of the small, fertile cornfields and pueblo of San Pablo directly below los manantiales, I suspect that this spring has been a special place and a source of life since ancient times, perhaps for thousands of years.

When I travel, I still enjoy the occasional experience of a city, a show, or a noisy night on the town. However now I mostly concentrate on quieter, more contemplative visits to places like los manantiales. These places don't shout out at you, don't demand your attention, and are not always easy to find. Some people do not notice them at all. But those who do sense the meaning of these places definitely experience something that surpasses human-made attractions.

Above all, places like los manantiales possess a strong sense of self. They resonate with life, the passing of time, the seasons, the spirits of people, animals, plants and venerable trees long ago dissolved and reincarnated in the cycles of life. The reverberations of past events still linger in these locations because it is so evident in them that although everything over time changes in form, it all is still here.