The Tomb of Poulnabrone: A Portal to the Past
The Neolithic Age is a quiet time for the history enthusiast. There are no great epics, no legends, not even king’s lists but only the moss-covered sites, standing stones, sometimes with enigmatic carvings, and somber stone monuments. These sites do have their stories however, whispered in soft tones, and if one listens carefully one can sense their stories in the presence of the past. Poulnabrone, a dolmen in the region known as the Burren in County Clare, Ireland, is one such site.
In January of 2015 I visited Poulnabrone with my wife, Betsy. It was a cold day with a strong wind coming down from the highlands across the strange, cratered, rock slabs which make up the Burren. Poulnabrone was a thirty-minute (28.1 km) drive from where we were staying at the Churchfield Bed & Breakfast in Doolin and, all along the way, we passed the stray castle or ruins of a stone church or house off in a field or looming suddenly from the hillside. All of these had their stories, such as the ruins of Leamaneh Castle with its tale of the infamous Maire ni Mahon (“Red Mary”) and her many husbands, each of whom seemed to die mysteriously at convenient moments to advance her private goals. We were going to visit a site with no such lively narrative. Neither of us had ever visited Poulnabrone and, when we arrived, and Betsy first saw the dolmen from the parking lot, she said, “That’s it? It’s just a rock out in a field!” I laughed because, of course, she was right. The photos one commonly sees of Poulnabrone are taken from a low angle and so the dolmen looks like an enormous monument, usually framed by the sky behind it, which one expects find towering majestically like Stonehenge or the Ring of Brodgar. In fact, it is quite modest when one visits: roughly 1.8 meters (5.9 feet high) and 3.6 meters (12 feet) long. Even so, it is much more than a rock in a field; it is a 5,000-year-old Neolithic monument and, once she was standing before it, Betsy said simply, “It is amazing.”
Poulnabrone is a truly amazing site. It is an exquisite monument of dark stone beautifully constructed and perfectly balanced rising from the pale karst landscape of the Burren. Poulnabrone is a dolmen, a single-chamber, megalithic tomb defined by a capstone resting on upright stones. The stones were brought from the surrounding countryside and were then assembled with perfect balance and precision, no concrete, no compounds whatsoever. The immense capstone of Poulnabrone rests on five upright stones: two portal stones, two orthostats (upright stones), and an end stone. Archaeologists who have worked at the site since the first excavations in 1986 have concluded that Poulnabrone was built chiefly as a tomb, not simply as a monument. Once upon a time, it is surmised, the site was erected as a doorway between this world and the next.
If one were to enter the tomb today (which is prohibited. The monument is roped off) one would be standing in the burial chamber which has been measured to 25 cm (9 inches) deep though archaeologists believe it was once 55 cm (21.6 inches) deep. Excavations by archeologist Ann Lynch in 1986 and 1988 found the remains of 22 people from the Neolithic Age buried in the dolmen: sixteen adults, six children and one newborn. None of the adults lived past the age of forty. Interestingly, the skeletons were clearly placed in the tomb after the bodies had decomposed elsewhere, suggesting to Lynch an elaborate burial ritual in which the body of the deceased had to be taken back by the earth before the bare bones of the deceased could be placed in the portal to the next world. Some of the skeletons showed scorch marks, indicating they had been burned and yet, so unevenly, as to rule out cremation. It is thought these parts of the bodies were burned away to hasten interment in the dolmen, possibly because of the approach of an important festival or rite, though this is only speculation.
In addition to the skeletons, Lynch found a polished stone axe, beads, jewelry, arrowheads, pottery shards and other remains of personal possessions. The capstone of the monument is at an angle and the skeletons of the deceased were placed in the front, at the highest point of the roof, with their possessions. It is thought that the dolmen was so designed to enable the soul to depart easily from the low angle at the back. Although there is no way of knowing for sure, it is possible that the low angle for departure had to do with the ancient Celtic understanding of the Underworld and the monument was specifically tilted in recognition of the Otherworld above the earth and the Underworld below. This Underworld, it should be noted would have had no correlation to the later concept of a `hell’ where souls are punished; it was simply another realm of the Otherworld. These concepts are only known to have arisen later in Celtic culture, as there is no way of knowing what the people who built Poulnabrone believed, but it seems likely, based on excavations and the positioning of the capstone, that those who constructed it believed something along the lines of their descendants.
The site was never `discovered’ as others have been. According to people in the area I spoke with, the site was always known and always recognized as an ancient tomb. No one thought to do anything in particular about it, however, until roughly thirty years ago. Scholars have translated the name `Poulnabrone’ as `Hole of the Quern Stones’, a `quern’ being a stationary stone on which grains were placed to then be ground with a handstone. It has been well established that this was a common practice in Neolithic – and later – times. No one seems to have explained why Poulnabrone, clearly a portal tomb, would be named for quern stones but perhaps the portal stones and orthostats are the same type which were commonly used as querns.
To the people of the area the site has always been known as the `Hole of Sorrows’. A local man I spoke with at the nearby Birds of Prey and Educational Centre and Aillwee Cave site (highly recommended, by the way) said he had heard of Poulnabrone in connection with quern stones but more frequently as `the place of sorrows’ or `hole of sorrows’. The arrangement of the bodies Ann Lynch discovered in the tomb, as well as the artifacts buried with them, suggests that these were important people to the community – clearly not everyone was allowed to be buried there – and perhaps the loss of these individuals resonated in the grief of their people to give the site its local association with sorrow.
Standing at Poulnabrone and gazing at the monument and the rocks of the Burren behind it is very like stepping back in time. In January, anyway, the road behind us was silent and there were no other visitors that day. The story of the site hung silently in the air and I wished that, through that silence, I could hear something of the tale of who built it and why. Then I understood that the specifics of the `why’ did not really matter. Human beings throughout recorded history have always yearned for an immortal place in the lives of those they leave behind and have always maintained some kind of belief in another world beyond this one. Poulnabrone exemplifies this belief in its very shape and size as it feels like a welcoming shelter in the wilderness where one could find refuge from the elements and rest from one’s chores.
A cold rain began to beat down and the wind picked up sharply. It was time to get going. Looking at the opening of the tomb I could imagine those in the ancient past in this same kind of rain, with the same sorts of hopes and fears and attachments to the earth that I have, passing by Poulnabrone, and seeing a place of safety and a promise of ultimate rest and reunion after this life. Those who built the monument seemed suddenly as close and familiar as my wife standing next to me.
In season, I was told, tour buses stop at the site regularly and it is a popular attraction with tourists. There is no fee for admission. The site is directly on R476/R480 from Doolin but, from any direction in the area, it is impossible to miss as signs direct one clearly. The parking lot is small and there are no restrooms, no gift shop, and no facilities of any kind. Poulnabrone rises from the rocks of the Burren as it has for thousands of years. It needs no adornment and no attractions other than itself and what it symbolizes. The Neolithic Age is indeed a quiet time but, in the standing stones and monuments left behind, one can feel the same yearnings and hopes one recognizes in one’s self. In viewing this portal to the past, I understood how little real difference there was between myself and those who raised the stones of Poulnabrone; and this is finally the most important tale any site can tell – the story of one’s connection to those who have gone before.
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The Grand Estates of Staatsburg, New York
Two hours north of New York City, between the towns of Hyde Park and Rhinebeck, lies the small village of Staatsburg. The village today is a lovely, quiet, rural community with the Portofino Ristorante located prominently on the main road, the small, brick post office, St. Margaret’s Episcopal Church, the community library, and then the long expanse of the Dinsmore Golf Course, one of the oldest public golf courses in the country, which was created by the wealthy owners of the estates which once adorned the riverfront. There were four such grand estates in Staatsburg c. 1915: The Point (the Hoyt Estate), Staatsburgh (the Mills Estate), The Locusts (the Dinsmore Estate), and Hopeland (the Huntington Estate). The Point, Staatsburgh, and The Locusts were all connected originally to the Livingston family, regarded as “America’s Aristocracy”, while Hopeland was associated with the Dinsmore family which came to own The Locusts and its abundant acreage. All four of these estates once employed the majority of the citizens of Staatsburg, directly or indirectly, and although the days of the Gilded Age in America are long gone one can still feel those times as one stands on the hill outside the mansion of Staatsburgh,walks through the woods to the ruins of The Point or strolls the pleasant paths through the grounds of Hopeland.
The Hudson River Valley was discovered by Europeans in the 17th century and was described as unlike anything the Dutch Captain Hendrick Hudson had ever seen. It was literally a new world of endless wilderness covering high hills and valleys cut through by a river so wide it made the Amstel seem like a stream. It was not long, however, before the European settlers began transforming the land so it would resemble the old world they had left. Lots were cleared and buildings raised and the paths worn through the woods by Native American tribes like the Mahican and Munsee became roads which, in time, were paved. By the year 1712, the English had taken the land from the Dutch and increased development which would expand even further after the American War of Independence ended in 1783. Over the next one hundred years the land would change so significantly that it would have been unrecognizable to the early Dutch settlers and, by 1883, industrialization and urbanization was increasingly daily. Those affluent members of society, industrialists, railroad tycoons, investment bankers, who lived in New York City, more and more sought refuge in lavish country estates they could retreat to and chose the Hudson Valley for its beauty and proximity. The historian Harvey K. Flad comments on this, writing, “The buildings and the carefully landscaped grounds became a parlor in the wilderness.” The wealthy could have all the comforts of their urban homes in a rural setting and created artificial landscapes in the wilderness of the Hudson Valley in which they lived their dreams of ease and luxury. These rich captains of industry did not just happen upon the Hudson Valley in the 19th century, however; the region already had a reputation for natural beauty which encouraged the more affluent in society to build their estates along the river a century earlier.
The first estate was developed in 1792 when New York’s third governor, Morgan Lewis, built a 25-room country manor in Staatsburg overlooking the river. The 1,600-acre parcel belonged to his wife, Gertrude Livingston, whose family lived north of the village in Clermont. The original house burned down in 1832 and Lewis had a new Greek Revival home built in its place. The house was passed down in the family until inherited by Ruth Livingston Mills and her husband Ogden Mills, a financier and philanthropist, in 1881 who named their estate Staatsburgh. Mrs. Mills was a member of high society and, as a Livingston, felt she should set the standard by which other estates in the Hudson Valley would be measured. To that end, in 1895, she hired the firm of McKim, Mead & White to enlarge the mansion. The great architect Stanford White added two wings to the existing house and a third floor, completely engulfing the previous structure except for the massive central portico with its Ionic columns. The renovation took eighteen months and cost $350,000.000. When White was finished the new home was a mansion in the beaux-arts style of 65 rooms, 14 bathrooms, indoor plumbing with hot and cold running water, and 750 gas lights which were powered by a pump house on the river generating electricity. The historian Conrad Hanson writes, “Predating the Vanderbilt mansion in Hyde Park and the Astor’s Casino at Rhinecliff, no other place in the Hudson Valley at that time could come close to competing in terms of scale or splendor with Ruth and Ogden’s new 65-room palace.”
Among the many ladies of high social standing whom Ruth Livingston Mills wished to lord her new estate over, none would have been as important as Caroline Schermerhorn Astor who was leading the New York Society social scene at the time. Mrs. Astor was related to Elizabeth Schermerhorn Jones who, in 1852, built the grandest of all Hudson Valley estates in the nearby village of Rhinecliff. Jones’ estate, known as Wyndclyffe, was a three-story, 24-room mansion on eighty acres of land with a carriage house, boat house and dock, all set grandly on a hill of terraced lawns overlooking the river. Miss Jones had her house so opulently furnished, her grounds so well sculpted, that other wealthy families in the area added adornments and extravagances to their own country homes to keep pace with her; this practice gave birth to the famous idiom regarding trying to match the lifestyle of one’s neighbors: “keeping up with the Joneses”. Even though Miss Jones died in 1876 and Wyndclyffe was less lavish than it had been, when Ruth Livingston Mills decided to re-model her home in Staatsburgh, she would have had it in mind to out-do the fame of Wyndclyffe; and she succeeded. Wyndclyffe’s grand days were already a thing of the past when Staatsburgh was at its peak in terms of high society between the years 1900-1915. Lavish parties were regularly held at Staatsburgh with only the most select guests including writer Edith Wharton (niece of Elizabeth Schermerhorn Jones) who would later use Staatsburgh, Wyndclyffe, and the Hudson Valley in her novel The House of Mirth and mentions them in her memoir A Backward Glance.
In addition to the mansion house, Staatsburgh had the previously mentioned pump house by the river, a boat house, multiple out-buildings, and was a working farm on which Ogden Mills raised prize-winning cattle and grew flowers in the elaborate greenhouses which covered portions of the estate’s gardens. A member of The Jockey Club, Mills raced prize-winning horses which won in numerous prestigious events such as the Grand Prix de Paris in 1928. Each Christmas Ogden Mills gave every servant a twenty-dollar gold piece and was extremely generous in his gifts to the village which included stained glass windows imported from Chartres for St. Margaret’s Church, ambulances for local hospitals, and state-of-the-art equipment for the local firehouse. This is more impressive when one understands that Staatsburgh was not the Mills’ primary residence. The Mills only occupied their mansion in Staatsburg September through November or December; they had five other homes including a Paris residence next door to Auguste Rodin.
To the south were the Mills’ neighbors and relatives, the Hoyts, who had their own mansion, The Point, on a high crest of hill with a wide river view. The National Register of Historic Places Inventory from 1978 describes The Point as “An important example of Hudson River Gothic, 2 1/2story bluestone house designed by Calvert Vaux. Slate roof, arched windows in gables and dormer, brownstone quoins and other trim, buttressed stone entrance porch with Tudor arches, and much decorative woodwork.” The house was built sometime between 1852 and 1855 for the wealthy merchant Lydig Munson Hoyt and his wife Blanche Geraldine Livingston. Vaux, best known for his work with Frederic Law Olmstead on New York’s Central Park, positioned the house carefully in accordance with the sweep of the land so it would seem an organic outgrowth of its surroundings and then designed the entire estate to give visitor’s the impression of entering another world as soon as they passed through the gates. Elaborate gardens and wooded glens graced both sides of the long driveway which wound through the forest and up to the mansion. Although the house had only seven rooms it was still considered a grand manor situated on 92 acres of a working farm with greenhouses, stables for the horses, and barns for the other animals.
On the other side of Staatsburgh estate rose the towers of The Locusts which was first developed by Henry Brock Livingston in 1797 and named after the black locust trees which grew abundantly on the grounds. His property included a half-mile along the Hudson River and over a thousand acres of land. In 1871 the successful shipping magnate William Dinsmore bought the property, tore down the old manor house, and built a four-story, ninety-two room Italianate-style mansion on the spot. Like the Mills and the Hoyts, Dinsmore operated a farm on his property and was especially well known for his flowers and exotic plants. The grounds were completely renovated under Dinsmore’s care and he insisted on clover-shaped windows on all his buildings to mark his vast and sprawling estate; a design which can still be seen on existing buildings in the region today.
To the north of The Locusts was the fourth estate known as Hopeland which was first developed in 1859 by Major Rawlins Lowndes and his wife Gertrude Livingston who had Calvert Vaux design their house as he had The Point. In 1907 the architect and tennis celebrity Robert Palmer Huntington acquired the 300-acre property and enlarged the main house to create a 35-room Tudor Revival mansion. Huntington had married Helen Dinsmore in 1892 and the families lived easily as neighbors. As with the other estates, Hopeland was a working farm and it seems as though Huntington was given leave to use the Dinsmore estate’s barns. The Huntingtons raised three children on the estate all of whom married into respectable, and wealthy, families. The eldest, Helen, was married to Vincent Astor (son of John Jacob Astor IV who died on The Titanic) for twenty-six years until they divorced and she married the wealthy real-estate broker Mr. Lytle Hull.
Helen Hull inherited The Locusts (from her grandfather) and Hopeland (from her father) and disposed of them both. At some point between 1940 and 1950 she had the mansion at Hopeland dismantled by local workers who used the windows, doors, and trim in other projects in the community and then had the house destroyed. She retained the land, however, which she eventually donated to the New York State Parks Department. She then had the 92-room mansion of The Locusts dismantled and built a smaller Neo-Baroque manor in its place. With the other estate owners, Mrs. Hull had developed the golf course for private use and now donated it to the state of New York’s Parks and Recreation Department for the public. The Mills Mansion of Staatsburgh, though still standing, was no longer an estate by this time. In 1938 the mansion and grounds of Staatsburgh were donated to New York State for use as a park by one of Ogden and Ruth Mills daughters, Gladys Mills Phipps, in honor of her parents. Only the manor of The Point now remained as it had been at the peak of the Gilded Age and was still inhabited by the Hoyt family. In 1963, when the “master builder” Robert Moses was acquiring green space along the Hudson River for use as public park space, the Hoyt family was evicted and the house seized under eminent domain. The original plan was to demolish the manor and build a public swimming pool but the community objected. Instead, the house was left to decay and the grounds and stables fell into ruin.
Less than sixty years earlier, these four estates were the life blood of the community. The grand hotels which once lined the streets of Staatsburg and Route 9 catered to guests of the Hoyts, Mills, Dinsmores, and Huntingtons as did all of the other businesses up and down the river. Staatsburg once had its own train station, sidewalks with streetlamps, pubs, restaurants, shops and factories, and at least four hotels in the village alone, not counting those along Route 9; today there is only one restaurant in the village and all the rest – including the sidewalks – are gone. The Gilded Age of the very rich passed into memory with the advent of income tax in the United States in 1913 which curtailed how much money the wealthy could spend or, at least, how much they were willing to admit to. WWI, the stock market crash of 1929, and the Great Depression all contributed their own measure to the decline of the estates and descendants of the Gilded Age millionaires either donated their family homes (like Gladys Mills Phipps), destroyed them (like Helen Hull), sold them or, like Helen Hoyt, were evicted from the property to make way for a new paradigm of society in which the estates played no part.
Except for The Locusts, however, one may still walk the grounds and visit the houses which once gave Staatsburg its life. The Point is presently under renovation courtesy of the Calvert Vaux Preservation Alliance and the National Park Service. If you walk down the river path at Staatsburgh, pass by the small beach, and continue on into the woods, always staying on the path and heading upwards, you will find The Point in surprisingly good condition for a house which has been vacant for fifty-two years. One is not allowed inside the house, which is now fenced off, but one can visit and see the outbuildings which were once the stables, the greenhouse, and barn. Leaving Mills and heading north on Old Post Road, you will pass by The Locusts which is today privately owned by hotelier Andre Balazs as a farm and prestigious center for conferences and high-end weddings. One may visit by appointment only. At the northern end of the village, just past The Locusts, the grounds of Hopeland are open to the public as a park. People can still enjoy the grounds, bridges, and paths throughout the estate and the site has become popular with bird-watchers, dog-walkers, and artists. Mills’ mansion of Staatsburgh remains almost completely intact with tours of the home offered Thursday through Sunday and the grounds open seven days a week dawn till dusk. Special “Downtown Abbey” tours are offered as well as talks on The Titanic as the Mills had tickets for return passage on the doomed ship in 1912. A tour of the mansion is a walk through history as the guides take the visitor back in time to the Gilded Age and the era of high society when the affluent of America looked out through the long windows of their parlors in the wilderness and created the world they wanted to see. However one may view the wealthy of the Gilded Age today, they were the celebrities of their time and their weddings, scandals, and grand parties were the talk of the town and the stuff of high newspaper sales. More importantly, though, they provided for the communities which supported their way of life and, after their time had passed, small villages in America like Staatsburg would have to fend for themselves, for better or worse.
Did You Know? Section:
The phrase “Gilded Age”, which refers to the period between c. 1870-1917 in America, was coined by Mark Twain. He intended it as a negative commentary on an era which glittered on the surface but was corrupt beneath owing to the greed of Robber Barons who engaged in unscrupulous business practices to increase their wealth at the expense of the common good. Today the phrase is generally understood in a positive light with reference to a transformative time in America’s history when urbanization and industrialization increased rapidly and the United States entered the modern age or, more commonly, to the age of the great estates and wealthy American aristocracy prior to the implementation of income tax in 1913 and America’s involvement in WWI in 1917.
Brief History of Staatsburg:
In 1664 the English officer Captain Henry Pawling came to the region and bought 4,000 acres from the Native Americans after he was discharged from service. After his death in 1692 his wife sold off large sections of the land and the area now known as Staatsburg was purchased in 1701 by Dr. Samuel Staats and Dirck Van Der Burgh of New York City. They bought the parcel for 130 pounds and named the area after themselves: Staatsburgh. In 1890 the `h’ was dropped from the name as part of the standardization policy of the U.S. Board on Geographic Names. Staatsburg has had many famous visitors including the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, President Ulysses S. Grant, author Thomas Wolfe, Cole Porter, Leonard Bernstein, author Edith Wharton, and long-time neighbor from Hyde Park, President F.D. Roosevelt.
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Mary Jane Colter and the Grand Canyon: Just Amazing – by Betsy Mark for Timeless Travels Fall `16
For years now people have been telling me to visit the Grand Canyon. When I would ask them why I received the almost universal response of, “It’s just amazing” which, honestly, did nothing to inspire me to go. Many sites and experiences could be described as “amazing”, after all, but not worth the time or effort. I could tell you, for example, that I find it amazing when my dogs Sophie and Monty actually come when I call them instead of staring off into space and ignoring me – but I wouldn’t expect you to travel 3342km to see it happen. To say something is amazing is such a subjective statement; there is really no way to use it to accurately describe to someone what the experience one is so excited about might be like. This habit of people describing the Grand Canyon as amazing – and just leaving it at that – annoyed me for all the years I endured it until I finally travelled there myself and understood: there really are no words to describe the experience of the Grand Canyon.
We were out in Arizona celebrating my dad’s 80th birthday with a trip to the canyon and environs through the excellent Road Scholar program he had signed us up for. The family, and the other travelers in our group, from all over the United States, were enormous fun and made the trip all the more interesting. Beginning in Phoenix, Arizona we travelled through the region with overnights at Marble Canyon, the Grand Canyon, and Peach Springs toward the further end of the Colorado River. Arizona’s landscape is almost surreal in how the land lays flat for miles to abruptly rise in huge, intricately-carved cliffs which either jut straight up to tower over the land or rise gently into hills which then amble slowly away toward the horizon. It never actually became cool there in the early October mornings or evenings; it just became less hot – but it was a very manageable heat and one could hike or stroll paths without any great discomfort.
As I considered the terrain and the temperature, and always in mind of the past, I found myself wondering what it had been like for the early inhabitants and then the first Europeans, and then Americans, who came to the region. It must have been quite an experience moving across the enormous continent of what would become the United States of America into this strange land of arid desert and rock, walking long miles in this very dry heat, to then find one’s self confronted with the sweeping enormity of the Grand Canyon. The Native Americans who once lived in the area, and the immigrants who came later, were frequently on my mind.
The history of the canyon, as far as human involvement goes, is not that long. The Grand Canyon was formed, according to the most accepted estimates, some 17 million years ago through erosion by the Colorado River which runs through it now about 6700 feet below the rim. The first human habitation came c. 1200 BCE with the Puebloan people (also known as the Anasazi) and the Coconina tribe who were ancestors of the Yuman, Havasupai, and Walapai people. The Dine (Navajo), Sinagua, and Paiutes also lived – and many still live – in the region and, toward the south, the great Hohokam culture thrived and made the Arizona desert around Phoenix a verdant agricultural plateau through their intricate irrigation systems so perfectly graded and efficient that they were later used for the systems still in use today. These Native American tribes were still living in and around the canyon when the first European, Captain Garcia Lopez de Cardenas, came upon the southern rim of the canyon in 1540 CE. Following his expedition was that of two Spanish priests, Francisco Athanasio Dominguez and Silvestre Velez de Escalante, in 1776. These two priests, with their Hopi guides, descended into the canyon and found a way to cross the Colorado River, a crossing which, for centuries, would be known as the “Crossing of the Fathers” and which would be the only way to traverse the river until the 1870’s when Lee’s Ferry began operation. Lee’s Ferry would be the main crossing until the Navajo Bridge was built in 1928. James Ohio Pattie was the first American to visit the canyon in 1826 but there are no others recorded until the Mormon missionary Jacob Hamblin arrived in the area in the 1850’s.
Between 1850 and 1900 the Grand Canyon received quite a bit of attention. The American Civil War major John Wesley Powell was the first to navigate the entirety of the Grand Canyon on the Colorado River in 1869 and the first to call it the Grand Canyon (it had previously been referred to simply as “Big Canyon” which is not nearly so impressive). American interests at the time were largely focused on land use, not land appreciation, and if a mile of land could not be built on or laid over with railroad tracks it was not considered of much use. The Grand Canyon posed, literally, a huge problem to developers who could find no economic gain in this giant gaping hole in the earth which was too long and too broad to run a bridge across and too deep, with sides too steep, to develop viable housing in. It was at this point that Ralph H. Cameron, a prospector from Southport, Maine, entered the story. Cameron had read Powell’s account of his exploration of the Colorado River and almost immediately travelled across the country to Flagstaff, Arizona and then made his way to the south rim to experience the canyon for himself. Although other businessmen were already at work trying to exploit the area for financial gain, it would be Cameron who made the greatest impact and the most money.
Ralph Cameron recognized the natural beauty of the canyon and understood how best to make use of it: people would pay for the experience of a visit and, he thought, they may as well pay him as anyone else. He set up a toll booth on what would become Bright Angel Trail and charged people to go down into the canyon which, before, they could have walked on into for free as the Native American tribes had been doing for centuries. Once Cameron set up his business in the area he attracted others such as the dynamic Kolb Brothers, two photographers who would go to any lengths for the perfect shot, as well as land prospectors, merchants, and, finally, the railroad. Following the railroad was an entrepreneur named Fred Harvey (best known for his Harvey Houses, a precursor to the modern motel/restaurant staffed by his famous Harvey Girls) who provided lodging, food, and souvenirs to travelers. Whatever one may think of Fred Harvey’s contribution to popular culture, he was responsible for bringing to national attention one of the most brilliant architects of the time and an artist whose work remains an enduring treasure: Mary Jane Colter.
When you go to the Grand Canyon, you’ll hear the guides point to a building as “a Colter design” or say “this is another of Colter’s works” and they say this casually without further commentary, neglecting to elaborate on what an extraordinary artist this woman was. A visit to the canyon, and the buildings which largely make up Grand Canyon Village on the south rim, is much more interesting if one knows who Colter was and what she accomplished. It is a fascinating, if dismaying, fact of history that when the Europeans “discovered” the New World – a land of unbroken, pristine, landscape unlike anything they had ever seen – they fairly quickly set about transforming it into the old world they had left behind. The buildings which were constructed around the south rim of the Grand Canyon were very like the hotels and cabins one would find built by those of European descent anywhere else; until Mary Jane Colter appeared on the scene.
Colter (1869-1958) was born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania but her family moved to St. Paul, Minnesota when she was young. After high school, she attended the California School of Design in San Francisco, studying architecture, and then moved back to Minnesota to work as an art teacher at the high school. At this time, Fred Harvey was busily staking out his empire of hotels and eateries throughout the southwest and one of Harvey’s daughters, Minnie, was friends with Colter. Minnie got Colter a summer job with the Harvey Company doing interior design work on the Alvarado Hotel in Albuquerque, New Mexico in 1901. Fred Harvey took notice of her attention to detail and skill at design and eventually asked her to join the company full time as architect. Colter did the interior decorations on the El Tovar Hotel, a Harvey-run enterprise, in 1904. This hotel, which opened in 1905 catered to guests travelling on the Atchison, Topeka, Sante Fe Railway and was designed to meet their expectations. The El Tovar – still one of the most famous landmarks of Grand Canyon Village – was designed by Charles Whittlesey, the chief architect of the railroad, and is a beautiful example of early 20th century American architecture; but it is not remarkably different from hotels one would have found (and can still find) across the United States built on the traditional forms and lines of European buildings.
In 1904, following her success with the interior of El Tovar, Colter was given the task of designing a building of her own close to the hotel which would serve as a souvenir shop featuring arts and crafts by local Native Americans. She rejected any suggestion of creating a building which mirrored El Tovar’s design and instead fashioned a grand pueblo in the style of the Hopi people of the area which came to be known as the Hopi House. Colter was a perfectionist who needed every detail of the finished building to match the image she had of it in her mind. She designed the Hopi House without interior stairs but with exterior ladders of wood, the rungs laced to the braces with rough rope, in the tradition of an actual Hopi pueblo. The Harvey firm rejected the design, however, recognizing that guests would balk at having to climb the exterior series of ladders between the first and third floors and so Colter made one of her few concessions and added stairwells inside.
Concessions and compromise were not Colter’s strong point and those around her came to recognize this increasingly as they worked with her. Artist Fred Kabotie, who worked with her, remarked, “Mary Colter was talented, with strong opinions. We got along well…most of the time.” In 1914 she designed the stone lodges of Lookout Studio and Hermit’s Rest and controlled every single aspect of the construction right down to having the large fireplace in the center room of Hermit’s Rest scorched to make it appear a lonely hermit had been living in the stone cottage at the edge of the canyon for decades. When a work crew came to finish up details on the building they offered to scrub the fireplace to make it look new and Colter forbid it, saying, “You can’t imagine what it cost to make it look this old.”
Both Lookout Studio and Hermit’s Rest seem to grow organically out of their setting, precisely as Colter wanted them to. She was not interested in transplanting European style architecture in the new and wild expanse of the area around the Grand Canyon but in creating something unique to the region which would tell the land’s story in the style of that area’s own people. In 1922 she designed the buildings of Phantom Ranch at the bottom of the Grand Canyon, another project she supervised carefully, and in 1932 created the famous Desert View Watchtower which is arguably her masterpiece as far as those she constructed around the Grand Canyon go. Colter wrote of the tower that, “Time, the lost principle in much modern construction, was taken to select each rock.” The four-story watchtower rises 21m (70 feet) and offers a commanding view of the canyon. Colter designed it to mirror the watchtowers of the Pueblo peoples who lived in the area but on a much larger scale. The interior is decorated with murals, paintings, and petroglyphs of Hopi artists Fred Kabotie and Fred Greer and the whole is very carefully designed to precisely mirror a Pueblo watchtower’s design, right down to the Kiva room (a space used for religious rituals) on the first floor. Colter was concerned that guides would not be able to properly interpret the watchtower for guests and so she wrote the guidebook herself, the Manual for Drivers and Guides Descriptive of the Indian Watchtower at Desert View and its Relation, Architecturally, to the Prehistoric Ruins of the Southwest, in 1933. The title of the book gives one an idea of how precise Colter was in every aspect of her work. In 1935, when she redesigned the Bright Angel Lodge in Grand Canyon Village, she wanted the fireplace to reflect the geological layers of the canyon precisely from floor to ceiling. When she found the workers had failed to insert the correct strata at the proper places, she had the work dismantled and done over exactly as she envisioned it in her design.
Colter’s buildings today are interspersed with others throughout Grand Canyon Village on the south rim but there is no mistaking her style of creating an extension of the landscape through her work. The Maswik Lodge, a 1960’s 250-room motel complex five minutes’ walk from the village, took its cue from Colter and is modestly designed so it appears almost a natural outgrowth of the Ponderosa Pine forest which surrounds it. Although Colter only designed three of the structures still extant in the village, the ranch at the bottom of the canyon, and the watchtower, she influenced the designs of those who came after her. Today, you can walk from Maswik Lodge (which, also in keeping with Colter’s vision of honoring the unique quality of the area, is named for the Hopi Kachina spirit who is said to guard the canyon) to the village and, through the very efficient trolley system, visit overlooks all along the south rim of the canyon quite easily. If you take the red line out from the Village Route Transfer you can get off at any of the stops along the way such as Trailview Overlook, Maricopa Point, Powell Point, Hopi Point, Mohave Point, The Abyss, Monument Creek Vista, and Pima Point; the last stop is Hermit’s Rest where you are greeted by Colter’s strangely beautiful stone archway which appears somehow in motion, in a moment of collapse, while at the same time giving the impression of timeless endurance. The view of the canyon from Hermit’s Rest is among the most striking, especially at sunset, and Colter’s insistence on working in stone according to Native American custom creates the illusion of a natural cave half-hidden in tumbled rocks offering a resting place to the traveler. Hermit’s Rest seems as natural a part of the landscape as the strange, gray-silver twisted trees, caught mid-dance, which surround it.
Although best known for her work at the Grand Canyon, Colter was active in designing buildings and hotels throughout the southwest and her innovative blend of Native American with European design features gave birth to the southwest “Santé Fe” style of architecture so widely used in the United States today from coast to coast. While many of her buildings elsewhere have been destroyed, those at the Grand Canyon have been preserved, in one collection, as a National Historic Landmark. Toward the end of her life, Mary Colter claimed she had lived too long as she saw some of her best pieces, such as the El Navajo Hotel in Gallup, New Mexico (which she considered her masterpiece), destroyed in the name of progress but during her time she created an enduring body of work which still survives and continues to inspire and impress. As a woman working in a man’s profession in the mid-20th century, she needed her male subordinate to sign off on her projects and never registered as an architect. She worked exclusively for the Fred Harvey Corporation for forty-eight years, dying in 1958 at the age of 88. Said to be a chainsmoker who enjoyed her whiskey, Colter also designed her own elegant ashtray along Hopi lines as well as the chairs and tableware of the El Navajo Hotel right down to the salad plates and pitchers. The care she put into the designs for the most commonplace of her creations can be appreciated in her larger works around the south rim. Writer, architect, artist, and perfectionist in all things, Mary Jane Colter’s work at the Grand Canyon complements, instead of distracting from, the natural wonder of the canyon itself and that canyon is an experience which defies description.
Looking out over the Grand Canyon from the stone patio at Hermit’s Rest you are simply in awe at the enormous expanse of the canyon’s cliffs spead out in front of you and, the most interesting aspect of this, you can’t even say why this is. Yes, the canyon is huge but it is not just the size which is affecting and, yes, the different colors of the strata of the rock in the light of the dying day are incredibly vibrant and beautiful, but you would not say that is what is most moving either. It would be easy to say that the canyon makes you feel small, puts life in perspective somehow, humbles you in the face of such an ancient and natural wonder but none of those observations are exactly true and seem somewhat trite attempts at describing an experience which cannot be captured in words.
The early Spanish priests who visited the Grand Canyon in the 18th century sent back reports of their experience saying simply that it was “profound” – which is very like the report I heard from those who had made their own visits and urged me to go. And now I’ve joined the ranks of those people saying you really need to visit the Grand Canyon. Why? It’s just amazing.
For Further Reading:
Manual for Drivers and Guides Descriptive of the Indian Watchtower at Desert View and its Relation, Architecturally, to the Prehistoric Ruins of the Southwest
by Mary Jane Elizabeth Colter
Mary Colter: Builder Upon the Red Earth by Virginia L. Grattan
The Harvey Girls: Women Who Opened the West by Lesley Poling-Kempes
An Archaeological Guide to Ancient Ruins of the Southwest by David Grant Noble
END
A Day Among the Maya: Traveling Through Chichen Itza
The small bus bumped along the uneven roads of Tinum in Yucatan, Mexico. I was sitting next to my guide, Isidro, heading toward an ancient city I’d been reading about for years but had never seen: Chichen Itza. Isidro and I passed the time with small talk as the squat bus rolled on beneath overhanging palm trees and the alternating sunlight and shade.
“Hey, would you happen to have a flashlight on you?” I asked.
“Why would you need one?”
“Well,” I said. “I’d like to get inside the Akab Dzib and I think I’ll need a light.”
Isidro shook his head, looking out at the road. He said, “You don’t want to go in there. It is protected by the Ushmals.”
I shrugged.
“The Ushmals,” he said. “They are like your fairies or – sprites? They are mischevious little beings. They call the Akab Dzib their home.”
He then went on to describe the Ushmals (also known as Aluxo’ob or Duende), how they often appeared as miniature people and had potent powers over human beings. He said how one should never say their name outloud in an open space or attract their attention or else they could follow one home and even inhabit a person’s mind. He didn’t say any of this as though it were superstition or fable. They didn’t sound like a lot of fun.
“I could still see the place, though, right?”
“It is closed to the public. You may see the outside,” he said, and then added, “Why didn’t you bring a flashlight if you were planning on sneaking into the Akab Dzib?”
“I had four,” I said. “But I have this habit of crawling into old ruins and this morning Betsy – my wife – took my flashlights out of my back pack. She thought I’d maybe think twice on this trip without them.”
Isidro smiled and nodded, saying, “I see. Your Betsy is very wise. I will have to keep an eye on you.”
We drove on. The trip from Playa del Carmen to Chichen Itza is about two hours one-way. Once you leave the the resort area you hit the main roads which wind across the country with cars zipping quickly past, the sounds of horns, stretches of faded fields and faraway trees on either side of the dusty highway.
The main roads, though, slowly begin to turn into smaller, narrower ones and soon you’re driving beneath thick, overhanging trees and passing by small villages and white-washed homes where, Isidro told me, the people live very like their ancestors did a thousand years ago. Isidro is Mayan, as are the people whose homes we passed, and he told me how funny he finds it when he reads magazines or books from the United States which talk about the “mysterious Maya” and how they all disappeared. He said, “As you can see, no one has gone anywhere. We are all still here as we have always been.”
The Maya are the indigenous people of the region who lived in magnificent cities and outlying villages in Mexico and Central America and who continue to live in the same areas as their ancestors: modern-day Yucatan, Quintana Roo, Campeche, Tabasco, and Chiapas in Mexico and southward through Guatemala, Belize, El Salvador and Honduras. Their name, Maya, comes from the ancient Yucatan city of Mayapan, the last capital of a Mayan Kingdom in the Post-Classic Period. Little was known of the Maya until the mid-19th century when John Lloyd Stephens and Frederic Catherwood explored the region and brought back reports of fantastic cities of immense height and scope buried in the jungles of Mexico and Central America.
Stephens’ book, Incidents of Travel in Central America, Chiapas, and Yucatan, published in 1841, created world-wide interest in the Maya; so much so that many wealthy Americans sought Mayan art or pieces of archtecture for their estates. One man, John C. Cruger, had portions of Mayan ruins brought to his island on the Hudson River in New York and, when he found he didn’t have enough, hired artisans to create fake ones.
Between roughly 200-950 AD (known as the El-Tajin Period and the Classic Maya Period) the Maya lived in their great cities, built their enigmatic monuments, and engaged in warfare and trade with each other and then, in a relatively brief period of time, the cities were abandoned. No one knows why. By the time of the Spanish Conquest in the 16th century, cities like Chichen Itza, Uxmal, Tikal, and Bonampak were already deserted ruins. The Spanish priests did not at first believe that the people they found living in huts in the jungle were responsible for the enormous empty cities which rose from the tangle of growth. Most likely, the cities were abandoned due to overuse of the land and depletion of water supplies. The city of Copan, to cite only one example, was abandoned when the population outgrew the city’s resources.
This explanation was not available to the Spanish of the 16th century, however, and the cities appeared to them as evidence of some great lost civilization. The new arrivals did little to try to understand the people or the buildings they encountered. They were more interested in converting the indigenous peoples to Christianity and transporting whatever they found of value back to Europe. The Spanish could not decipher the Mayan glyphs and were in no way helped by one of their priests, the Bishop Diego de Landa, who burned the Mayan books and thousands of statuary the night of 12 July 1562 in an effort to sever the link between the Maya and their “satanic” beliefs.
De Landa holds an interesting place in Mayan history since, although he destroyed much of the cultural artifacts which would have helped people to understand the people’s history, he also left a comprehensive written account of the culture as he found it which has proven valuable to later scholars and historians. Still his suppression and persecution of the Mayan culture led the people to distrust the Christians who were so intent on saving them and they no longer shared with the immigrant conquerors any of the details of their culture. This is most clearly demonstrated through the Mayan holy book, The Popol Vuh, which states that the stories are being set down in a time of persecution by the Christians and the book must be kept secret. In their zeal to exploit the land and the people for their own gain, the European conquerors failed to understand the purpose of the art, literature or buildings they discovered. Among these buildings was the mysterious structure known as the Akab Dzib which even today baffles archaeologists.
The name Akab Dzib translates as “House of the Mysterious Writing” and is so-called because of glyphs (writing) found inside which no one can translate and hand prints in red (similar to those at Tulum) which should symbolize the Descending God of the Maya but don’t fit the usual pattern. The building, which is the oldest at Chichen Itza, had intrigued me since I’d first read about it years ago. I had read how it was inhabited by spirits but hadn’t given that any thought until Isidro had talked about the Ushmals earlier. I wasn’t especially interesed in meeting any Ushmals but I did want to see the mysterious writing.
We rolled into Chichen Itza with the great pyramid of El Castillo rising up on our left and we parked in front of a very modern looking gift shop and cafe on our right. I wasn’t interested in gifts or bathrooms and we went directly toward El Castillo where Isidro began his tour. He explained how the name is often translated as something like “The Mouth of the Well of the Itza” but actually means “The City of the Well of the Water Wizards” because of the huge cenote (a large natural pool) which was a center for religious rites and because the Itza (the wizards) had a great talent for gathering and preserving water; a gift highly prized by the Maya.
El Castillo is an immensely impressive structure, a step-pyramid rising high into the sky, carefully aligned with the heavens so that, at the spring and autumn equinoxes, a shadow is cast on the stairs which appears to be the great plumed serpent god Kukulcan descending down to touch his people. The steps are short and narrow, even though long across, and hard to climb – especially if one has a fear of heights. There was a thin rope strung up the center of the stairs to act as a handrail but it wasn’t of much use. The illusion of stability it offered, however, proved more and more valuable the higher one climbed. From the top of El Castillo the view is absolutely astounding as the jungle spreads out beneath you for miles. At the time the city was inhabited none of the trees one gazes down upon existed and the whole of the city – and far beyond – would have been laid out clearly at the feet of the ancient priests and rulers who would have stood where I was standing.
Going up the steps of El Castillo, however anxiety-inducing I’d found it, was infinitely easier than going down. Going up, one can keep one’s gaze focused on each step as one climbs; going down, there is no way to block out how high up you are or how narrow each step is and that flimsy rope handrail seemed as useful as an umbrella in a hurricane. When I reached the bottom, I was ready for a drink and some shade but there was too much city to explore and we moved on.
The Great Ball Court nearby is so perfectly constructed that when Isidro whispered “Where are you?” from one end, 500 feet away from me, I could hear him clearly as though he were standing beside me. No one, he told me, has ever been able to explain this phenomenon. Various experts have studied the architecture of the ball court to try to replicate the acoustics elsewhere but none have succeeded. The ball court was once where the Maya played their game of Poc-a-Toc, a ball game with deep spiritual resonance. The two teams of seven men faced each other on the field and tried to score by getting a small, hard, rubber ball through a vertical stone hoop set some twenty feet (or higher) above the ground using only their hips, shoulders, head, and knees; one could not kick or throw the ball. De Landa wrote that watching the Maya play Poc-a-Toc was like seeing lightning strikes, they moved so fast. The game symbolized the harmonious circle of life and re-enacted the game played by the Hero Twins of Maya religion, Hun-Hunapu and Xbalanque, who defeated the Lords of Xibalba and created the ordered world. It has long been argued by western historians that the losing team was sacrificed to the gods but Isidro – and others I spoke with later – claimed it was the winning team and only under certain circumstances. As Isidro pointed out, “The gods would not be interested in having losers play for them; they only want the best. And the teams, they would have been grateful – whether winning or losing. We should always be grateful, in all things, always.”
It was a line he repeated, with variations, as we walked through the city’s ruins. Gratitude, he said, was a very important value to his people, as was hospitality. Everywhere we went, everywhere I looked, all around the grounds of the city, were Maya selling wares spread out on colorful blankets or simply sitting on the grass surrounded by small statues or jewelry for sale. I overheard some tourists complaining that they shouldn’t let these people on to the grounds to annoy visitors; they didn’t seem to consider that Chichen Itza was built by the ancestors of these people they were disrespecting who were only smiling and welcoming them. Those who were selling their goods were all very polite, not at all intrusive or bothersome. They seemed to be simply offering souvenirs for sale in an outdoor market, much as their ancestors would have done, and a visitor could buy or decline at their pleasure.
We left the city center and visited the Sacred Cenote, which I found to be a very moving experience as I’d read that people were willingly sacrificed at this spot to ensure the health of the community through continued rainfall and a strong harvest. Isidro confirmed this saying how the offerings to the gods were probably not captives from other cities, who would have been sacrificed in a different way, but people from the community who gave their lives for the well-being of the city.
The Cenote is not a short walk from El Castillo and, by the time we got back there, pausing by the fascinating Tzompantli (a thick platform adorned with skulls), we were both hot and tired. Isidro suggested that it was time for a break and a cool drink but I had other plans: the Akab Dzib. He said that he was going to rest awhile and speak with some friends he saw over by the gift shop but that I could go if I wished and he told me how to get there. As I was walking away, he called out, “Remember what I said about that place. Don’t go inside. If you see a rope across the door, stay out.”
The day was hotter than before but it was a dry heat. I passed through sparse woods, stopped at the amazing Caracol, the ancient observatory, and went on, the leaves and pebbles softly crunching beneath my sandals. The further away I got from the site’s center the quieter everything became until all I heard were the sounds of birds in the trees around me and small scamperings in the dirt and grass of iquanas which would sometimes run out in front of me seeking a shady spot. And then there, in a clearing before me, stood the Akab Dzib.
It was a small building, maybe only twenty feet high, built of short, sturdy-looking limestone bricks and running over a hundred feet in length. Grass and small trees grew from its roof and around the foundation and the whole structure seemed completely organic; as though it had grown up from the ground with the plants and trees which surrounded and topped it. There was one door in the building in front of me with a low-lying pale-yellow rope across it. I had read there were seven doors in the Akab Dzib but that the room with the strange writing was at the southern end. I had lost all sense of direction so I hoped I was at the right end.
I easily stepped over the rope, which hung maybe an inch off the ground and couldn’t possibly have been placed there to keep anyone out, and walked into the darkness of the building. I’d expected it to be cooler out of the sun but it felt hot and stale inside; the air was thick and dried my mouth and tongue. I may not have had my flashlight but I did have a small Bic lighter, flicked it, and saw I was standing in an ancient hallway, a doorway ahead of me. Light came through from the door behind me and I moved ahead, my sandals scattering the dry earth and the thick air seeming to cling to me as I moved slowly down the hallway – when I heard a sound.
Something was moving in the darkness ahead of me, moving slowly. I could hear the gravel stirring and something rousing itself in the soft sandy soil. I stepped forward and the sound came again but this time it seemed closer. Suddenly Isidro’s warnings of the Ushmals were all I could think of; how they protected their shelters, how they could change shape at will, how frightening they could be. I had my lighter in hand and sunlight from the door behind me but it was still dark and dim ahead of me and I took a step back. Then the `something’ ahead of me moved quickly. It sounded large. It sounded huge. The small rocks and earth beneath it were skittering against the stones of the wall and I turned and started to run back the way I’d come, stumbled out the door, felt my foot catch on something, and then went sailing through the air to land heavily on the gravel outside.
Quickly, I scurried onto my back and then was up and glaring at the doorway and that stupid rope I’d just tripped over – and there stood my assailant: an iquana. It wasn’t even a very large iguana. I’d crawled into ruins with snakes in them larger than that thing. I noticed I’d managed to cut my knees when I fell and scraped the palms of my hands on the gravel. I pulled out my watch and saw I’d spent more time at the Caracol than I’d intended and more time creeping down the hallway than I’d thought and I had to get back to Isidro.
I hadn’t seen any mysterious writing above the doorway when I’d gone in so I knew I’d been at the wrong end. I walked quickly around the Akab Dzib and stood at the southern doorway; but I just didn’t feel like going in. Yes, an iguana had scared me off my quest. I figured that, if that little guy was in there, someone else probably was also and I wasn’t wearing the best foot or leg wear, in just a t-shirt, shorts, and sandals, for an encounter with a snake like the fer-de-lance (also known as the Terciopelo) or maybe a sprite like an Ushmal. I looked at the rope hanging across the door, this one about knee-high, and turned away.
When I got back to Isidro, he looked at my scratched knees, dusty t-shirt and arms, and said, “You went in anyway, didn’t you?”
I said, “Not far. Got chased out by an iguana.”
“That iguana,” he said. “He did you a great favor.”
I just nodded and shrugged.
We continued touring Chichen Itza and every building, every engraved stele, seemed more magnificent than the last. The Temple of the Warriors and Group of a Thousand Columns were incredibly exciting to walk among and Isidro’s narrative of the history of the city and the people brought everything vibrantly to life. We left Chichen Itza as the tour buses began to arrive and the crowds flowed in. In nearby Piste, we stopped and had lunch at a cafe which was owned by Isidro’s friends. That cold Sol beer was one of the best I’d ever tasted and the food was excellent: hot spanish rice and tamales, gorditas, and Medudo Rojo.
After our meal, we headed back toward Carmen del Playa, talking about the day as we drove. I never got to see the strange writings inside the Akab Dzib but, somehow, it didn’t matter to me anymore. Walking through the ruins with Isidro I felt as though I’d traveled back to the time of the water wizards when the city was alive with his ancestors and the buildings and columns gleamed brightly painted in the sun. The spirit of the place was so resonant I could almost feel the collective past of centuries at my fingertips on the ride home. When we reached Playa del Carmen the memory of the sunlight and shade of the woods around the Akab Dzib and the steep steps of El Castillo were vividly before my eyes as I thanked Isidro for the day and headed back to tell Betsy about my adventure.
I highly recommend a visit to Chichen Itza and, if you go, encourage you to hire a guide. There is too much you’ll miss without one. Guides may be hired at the resorts of Playa del Carmen and there are also guided tour buses which leave from the area by the beach in the early morning and, further, guides one may hire at the site (please see the article below on how to make the most of a trip on negotiating a guide on site). I’d also encourage you to watch out for those iguanas. I think I could deal with being chased out of the Akab Dzib by an angry Ushmal, no problem, but a little iguana? That’s just embarrassing. Of course, according to Isidro, that iguana was just protecting me from myself and, as with everything, I should only be grateful for the experience.
END
A Weekend in Doolin, Ireland
For any who have ever wondered, Ireland in winter is quite cold and, by the coast, the winds seem to actually shriek in rage. Pretty much everyone we met in our travels laughed and told us we must be daft to come in winter when, as one said, “even the trees `round here lay down and play dead till spring” but we loved it. The streets and sites so crowded with tourists in season are wonderfully quiet and peaceful in January and one has the opportunity to take in the landscape and talk to the people without distraction.
My wife Betsy and I travelled across the country from Shannon on up, down, and across to Dublin, seeing many memorable sites and having the pleasure of meeting many warm and welcoming people. Ireland is a country which embraces a visitor instantly and, everywhere you go, you find that same welcome. When I think back on the trip, however, the memories which linger longest are of the lovely village of Doolin where we spent our first weekend.
We landed at Shannon airport in the dark and light rain of early morning and took the rental car to the medieval town of Ennis. The city streets and sidewalks shimmered in the haze from the streetlamps. Winding through the silent city in the pre-dawn darkness, we crossed over a stone bridge above the River Fergus, and parked near the 13th century friary. Close by was a monument to the Easter Rising of 1916 where we paused to pay our respects then walked on. It was too dark yet to appreciate the friary so we went looking for breakfast. We stopped in at a cafe for an excellent Irish breakfast – eggs, sausage, ham, tomatoes, mushrooms and black pudding on toast – with hot tea and coffee.
Afterwards we visited the churches, shops, and the Franciscan Friary which dates from 1250 AD and was closed, along with all the others, under the reign of Henry VIII during England’s Protestant Reformation. Ennis is a beautiful village and felt crisp and clean in the morning light, stone bridges arching over the swiftly running river. We both would have liked to spend more time there; especially at the Brian Boru Heritage Centre where interactive displays tell the story of early Ireland and the great hero who fought the Vikings and their allies at the Battle of Clontarf in 1014. We had to move on, though, and headed for our first stop at the Cliffs of Moher.
The journey up through the hills of Doolin toward the sea is its own adventure. The roads are the typical Irish rural paths where you’re certain two cars cannot possibly pass each other without colliding. There are ruins of old stone houses and churches interspersed among the new homes of concrete or sitting alone out on green hilltops or pastures. Upon arriving at the cliffs, one pays 6 euros (cash only) per person for parking and admittance. The wind was howling across the parking lot when we stepped out of the car and we struggled against it toward the visitor’s center.
Inside it was comfortably warm out of the wind. There is a short film on the cliffs’ history and exhibits, restrooms, a cafe, and gift shops. We were eager to go see the cliffs but the wind was so cold and so fierce, coming off the sea at 80 km (50 miles) an hour, we needed time to warm up and so watched the film and explored the exhibits. Heading out the doors for the cliffs, security personnel cautioned us not to venture too close to the edge; there was a very real risk of literally being blown away.
The Cliffs of Moher are justly famous, rising 214 meters (702 feet) from the sea which beats against the base and sends spray flying into the air. We pushed on against the wind up the broad, stone stairs toward O’Brien’s Tower at the top. The North Atlantic rolled in white surging waves far below us and, all along the coast line, we watched them breaking loudly against the rocks. Sea birds flew up in great circling flocks and the air was so cold that the water froze into tiny white sparkles in the air and then scattered as ice across the walkway and stairs. The word `exhilarating’ does not even come close to describing the experience of the Cliffs of Moher in January. Standing with Betsy at the top of the stairs, the sea spray in the wind lashing at us, looking down at the rolling waves, I felt as though I were in another world, a greatly elevated world, where every sensation seemed sharper, the light brighter, each sound more resonant.
The lowest point of the cliffs is Hag’s Head at 120 meters (390 feet) where the old 18th century fort once stood. The Moher fort was destroyed in 1808 for building material but, by that time, the name had attached itself to the cliffs. We were standing at the highest point, near O’Brien’s Tower (built in 1835), and it seemed as though one were standing at the very top of the world. That sensation became increasingly perilous with the winds and so we descended and walked over toward Hag’s Head. The wind was no less strong at the lower elevation but we almost didn’t mind it for the magnificent view of the sea and O’Brien’s Tower high on the far cliff we’d just come from.
After an hour of exploring we went back into the visitor’s center to warm up again and enjoy a tea and a coffee and then browse the gift shops. Once we could again feel sensation in our hands and faces, we left and drove on through the quiet Irish countryside. We stopped in the very pretty 19th century town of Lisdoonvarna and walked the streets, stopped in a few shops. The town takes its name from a Celtic word for “fort of the fairy hill” and this is well chosen because the entire place resonates with a Brigadoon-like quality as though it could vanish away any second into the fairy realm.
From Lisdoonvarna we went on to Doolin and passed by the striking 14th century Doonagore Castle, high on a hill overlooking the sea. Today this is a private holiday home, closed to the public, but well worth stopping to view from the road. We drove down the hills and through the narrow streets of town to Doolin Pier where you are face-to-face with the sea right at your feet. The waves blasted themselves in enormous sprays of white against the rocks of the shore while the winds tried to bend us backwards.
In season this is a popular spot for surfing and I could easily understand why as the waves are enormous. Out among the rolling waters we could see the smallest of the Aran Islands seeming to bob in the sea. From this point at the pier, or close to it, the Irish writer John Millington Synge would have departed for his stay out on the Arans where he produced his “first serious piece of work”, as he called it, The Aran Islands, published in 1907. The Aran Islands is my favorite of Synge’s works and it was grand to consider how I was walking where he had, seeing the sights he might have seen, but then the wind came on stronger and the sea spray was freezing on our coats so we retreated to the car.
We made our way back to Doolin which is a fascinating village of four distinct sections: the harbour (close to where we were at the pier); Fisher Street (where one finds most of the shops and pubs); Fitz’s Cross (another commercial district), and Roadford, the most rural area of the village where we would be staying. Our B&B was on a slim path of a road near a stone bridge over a part of the Ailee River which runs from the rocky Burren region above town down to the sea. On the far side of the building, out toward the horizon, the ruins of the Killilagh church rose from a field.
My favorite part of this trip was the time spent with people in the pubs and shops and our B&B, hearing the history of the town from Tony McGann at a table in his pub, sitting by the fire and our hostess Maeve Fitzgerald’s tales of life in the Burren as we sat in the comfortable warmth of her dining room.
If I were to select one image which symbolizes the trip for me, however, it would not be a fireside scene but the Killilagh Church because, even in ruin, it is still a vital part of the history of the people. It was referred to simply as “the old church” to differentiate it from the new one, not as “ancient” and not as a “ruin”, but simply as older than the present church people attended – even though it was built in 1470 and was burned by Cromwell in 1645. People still visit the Killilagh Church to lay flowers on the graves, and the old and new graves stand side by side in and around the grand old stone building. The ruined church seemed a symbol of the land and the people to me; still standing and enduring and beautiful no matter the challenges and troubles of the years.
There were two fine pubs down the road from us but we favored McGann’s and had an excellent dinner of hot Irish stew served with freshly baked bread. A few pints of Harp by the fire, and talking with Tony McGann while a trio played traditional music by the bar, rounded out the evening and we walked back to the B&B in a kind of stupor of satisfied weariness.
After a night of screaming Banshee-like wind, we woke surprised the house was still standing. We had a fine Irish breakfast over which Maeve commented on the night winds which then led her to a history of the village and the early settlers who built in stone, the buildings still standing in a field just down the road. The town was deserted in the mid-19th century during the time of the famous potato famine which Maeve, like Tony the night before, characterized as more of a genocide perpetrated by the rich landowners on the poor tenant farmers. After breakfast, I walked to the old village; silent stone structures standing vacant in a field under the shadow of a mountain. Normally I would have thought it sad all these people were gone and their homes deserted and in ruin but the stories I had heard made it all seem so alive, still a part of the communal memory.
I returned to the B&B and we went off in another direction to explore the Burren. Our hostess Maeve was among the many surprised we’d come in January instead of spring when the Burren is alive with flowers and plant life. I had seen pictures of the area in spring and it is quite lovely but I found it just as striking in winter. The Burren is what is known as a karst landscape made up of dolomite, gypsum, and limestone rock but no technical definition can do it justice. In spring the Burren must seem like the Garden of Eden but, in winter, it feels like the surface of the moon, cold and mysterious and magnificent.
We stopped at the 17th century Leamaneh Castle, home of the infamous Mary Rua (“Red Mary”) who appears in a number of Irish legends and songs. Mary allegedly had over twenty-five husbands, all of whom died under mysterious circumstances. Known for her bright red shock of hair as well as for doing precisely as she pleased, Mary was considered a walking scandal to her neighbors who finally sealed her alive inside a hollow tree, believing her to be a witch. Her ghost is said to still haunt Leamaneh Castle today. The site is not open to the public and sits on private lands but one may still get a good view of it from the road.
From Leamaneh we wound our way up through the slender roadways of the Burren, signs of civilization becoming less and less frequent, abandoned stone houses and distant towers far across the green fields giving way increasingly to the karst landscape. The narrow cattle paths gave way to a main road and we found the main object of our day’s trip: the Neolithic dolmen of Poulnabrone.
Dated to c. 4200 BC, Poulnabrone stands 5.9 feet high (1.8 meters) and 12 feet (3.6 meters) long in a field surrounded by the karst stone formations which make up the Burren. A “dolmen” is a single-chamber, megalithic tomb defined by a capstone resting on two orthostats (upright stones). Poulnabrone is the best known and most often photographed of the almost 200 dolmens in Ireland. I had heard that, in season, the site was regularly crowded but one advantage to Ireland in January is having such places entirely to one’s self and we spent considerable time walking quietly around the monument.
We went on to the Ailwee Caves which is attached to the Birds of Prey exhibit. It costs 36.00 euros to visit the birds and the cave and we started with the birds. These are remarkable creatures and their handlers are extremely knowledgeable. If you are a bird enthusiast then this is the experience for you. The handlers brought out a falcon and a hawk for the demonstration but there was also a Great Sea Eagle and other birds one would never normally see. After the demonstration we walked up a path through the woods, periodically passing by fascinating Celtic art pieces in wood and a small shrine, to the caves. We had a lunch of hot vegetable soup with brown bread before our tour of the caves.
These caves are the oldest formations in County Clare with calcite formations dating back 350,000 years. The cave tour began as the guide told us the cave’s history and pointed out various points of interest and then we started to descend into the earth. At one point the guide turned out all the lights and we were in complete darkness. I could see nothing and there was no sound save a faint trickle of water. At another point there was a waterfall dropping from the rocks, illuminated in pale blue light. The place felt so ancient. Down and down we went on these wooden ramps of concrete or stone inclines and it seemed that every step led us further and further back in time.
I learned from the guide how the place had been discovered some sixty years ago in 1944 by one of the McGann’s who had been chasing his runaway dog. He’d kept the find to himself, however, until the early 1970’s because he didn’t want it disturbed by outsiders.
Leaving Ailwee Caves, we stopped at the 10th century Caherconnel Stone Fort – a fascinating site known for early metal working – and then went on to the village of Ballyvaughn where we parked by the pier and watched the sea. Ballyvaughn was first settled in the medieval period but the present-day village grew up in the 19th century primarily as a fishing port. Like Lisdoonvarna, Ballyvaughn has an ethereal quality to it and, as one of the locals said, “is known to be favored by the wee folk” for its natural beauty.
The day was drawing down toward evening and we headed back to Doolin. We visited the Killilagh church toward twilight, the wind from the sea whipping past us and the Cliffs of Moher in the distance, and the stories I’d heard in the days we’d stayed in Doolin became more alive and the images more vivid. I could feel the past and the presence of the people who had come and built this church and their village of stone and then vanished away but who still lived on through the stories of those who remembered and honored them.
Our time in Doolin set the paradigm we would experience in our travels all across Ireland of fascinating people, beautiful landscapes, and stories which weave the past and the present together as one. Yesterday’s events are never forgotten in Ireland – no matter how long ago yesterday was – they live on in the memories and songs and stories of the people.
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The Mysterious Treasure of Chacchoben
Chichen Itza, Tulum, Tikal, Uxmal, Palenque are among the most famous of the ancient cities of the Maya. The intricate art work and architectural mastery of the soaring temples elevates like a magnificent symphony. These sites are absolute must-sees for anyone but, especially, a Maya enthusiast. Even so, sometimes one prefers a simpler piece; a concerto or chamber music to a full orchestral work. If you’re looking for this kind of experience there’s a little-known treasure in Quintana Roo which offers just the thing: Chaccoben.
We visited while on a cruise which stopped at Costa Maya and offered the trip as a shore excursion. At the port we met our guide, Lisbeth Zumia Rodriguez Choc, under a small pavilion with a thatched roof and she led us to the mini-bus and her driver. Chaccoben (pronounced chac-CHO-ben) is about an hour south of the port and, along the way, Lisbeth talked about Maya history and culture. It wasn’t a lecture but a series of delightful and fascinating stories.
When we reached Chacchoben I saw we were the only visitors at the site. We all left the bus and followed Lisbeth across the parking lot toward the gift shop. You can hire a guide here for $40.00 for five people on a 50 minute tour. Entrance without a guide is $8.00 per person. The gift shop has handicapped-accessible bathrooms, snacks, and many lovely souvenirs for sale. Lizbeth signaled for us to move on and we followed her down a path on the far side of the shop as she told us the story of the site.
In 1942 a man named Servilliano Cohuo, a Yucatec Maya, was looking for a place to start his farm. He wandered into the outskirts of the jungle and found himself in the middle of an ancient city, its monuments and buildings buried under centuries of growth. Cohuo cleared a part of the site, built himself a house, plowed the land, and began his farm. He married and had children who grew up playing in the ruins as their backyard.
Years later, in 1972, Dr. Peter Harrison, an American archaeologist, was flying over the region in a helicopter and noticed something strange about the topography below him: there were large hills in an otherwise flat region. Harrison went to explore the area and found Cohuo and his family. Cohuo was only too pleased to show the archaeologist around the site but could tell him nothing about it. The name Chacchoben comes from a nearby town and means “Place of the Red Corn”; no one knows what the city was called in antiquity nor anything of its history.
Harrison dated human habitation in the surrounding area at c. 1000 BC and early structural development at the site to 200 BC with most of the existing structures built during the Classic Period of the Maya civilization between 600-900 AD. Cohuo gave Harrison permission to inform the Mexican government that the ruins existed and Harrison did so, requesting that Cohuo be allowed to remain on his farm for the remainder of his life. Harrison then made the first professional excavation of the site and mapped it. In 1978 Cohuo was made official guardian of Chacchoben as excavations continued to uncover more of the ancient city and attracted the curious. He died in 1991 and, with his death, his family had to leave their home and were relocated nearby. The Mexican National Institute of Anthropology and History took charge of excavation and restoring the site in 1994 and it was opened to the public in 2002.
When you visit, you are only seeing a small part of a much larger city. The park is designed as a circular path which leads from the parking lot through the excavated areas and back. The first indication of the extent of the ancient city is that the first monument you come to is called Temple 24 – that’s just the number of the temples, not buildings – and you will be seeing only three in a little over an hour.
Temple 24 is a massive step-pyramid sitting on the far side of a green lawn towering above the jungle behind it. Ropes are strung across the stairways to prevent people from climbing the stairs but you can walk directly up to it – even up the first few steps – touch the ancient stone, and admire the fine concrete work. The Maya perfected hydraulic cement at some point before 250 BC. They built kilns to convert the limestone they had in abundance to powdered cement which, when mixed with water, stones, and clay, became concrete. If you know this, when you walk around Temple 24 (or any other great Maya monument) you can see what has been renovated and what sections are original; the Maya concrete has a different look and texture than the modern. At Temple 24 this can be seen most clearly on the far side, the back of the structure closest to the jungle.
Like many ancient civilizations, the Maya believed in recycling and this extended to buildings as well as anything else. When a new ruler took a city he would build his palace and temple on top of the old king’s work. This was a practical show of power – the new king had dominated the old – but could also be symbolic as the new king was acknowledging the foundation of power he built on. At many sites, such as Kohunlich which is also close to Costa Maya, archaeologists can date a city by the inscriptions left on these structures by the series of kings. One unusual aspect of Chacchoben is that it has no inscriptions.
Lisbeth provided us with a short lecture on the monument and then set us loose to roam around on our own. I saw Betsy and Emily on the far side of the temple taking pictures of a howler monkey high in a tree. Wildlife is abundant here and we saw many brightly colored birds, monkeys, and armadillos as we walked through the park.
Leaving Temple 24, we passed unexcavated pyramids on our right which loomed above us, masked by jungle growth. Lisbeth brought us to a clearing where an ancient stele lay beneath a small thatched canopy at the foot of an impressively wide stone staircase. This, she told us, was the Grand Plaza. Gesturing to her left, she indicated where the market and “main street” was and then motioned with her right hand to the stairway and invited us to go up to see the center of religious worship in the city, now known as the Gran Basamento.
Like all Maya stairs, these were close-cut and steep. There are another set of stairs further along the hillside, Lisbeth told us, if we wanted an easier climb. I was in too much of a hurry, though, and ran up the ones in front of us. At the top was a wide plateau with two huge structures and a few smaller ruins. A building known as The Vessels was to my left and, across the field, the towering Temple 1.
Maya religion was completely integrated into the people’s daily lives. The gods were always present but, of course, lived apart from human beings high on mountain tops or deep in caves. The Maya built their enormous pyramids in the centers of their cities as artificial mountains, the homes of the gods, and placed the temples at the top. The gods, it was thought, would recognize these monuments as their natural homes and live among the people.
They also created artificial caves within these monuments for the same reason. These “caves” were sometimes tombs but were also used for religious rituals. As with many ancient cultures, the Maya believed the gods were constantly providing for and caring for them but, unlike most, the gods offered no guarantee to any of an eternal afterlife of bliss. It was up to each individual to find a way back to them after death and only the truly worthy – as defined by Maya values – had any hope of success.
To the Maya, life was a journey which did not end when the body died. The soul lived on and travelled to the dark underworld of Xibalba (shee-BAL-ba). In this land of eternal night, the soul would try to find its way through the labyrinths, avoid the tricks and traps of the Dark Gods, and locate the tree of life whose roots grew deep into the shadowy earth. Once the soul reached the tree – if one were lucky enough to ever find it – one could climb up through the nine layers of darkness to emerge back on earth and then keep climbing up to paradise. It was a long, uncertain, journey but worth it to arrive at one’s destination and live among the gods.
The only souls who were exempt from this journey were those of women who died in childbirth, voluntary sacrificial victims, warriors who died in battle, athletes who died playing the game of Poc-a-Toc, and suicides. The Maya considered the act of suicide rational and honorable and even had a goddess dedicated to the care of these souls. Ixtab (EESH-tab) was envisioned as the decaying corpse of a woman with a noose around her neck hanging from the heavens. When someone killed themselves, she came down to earth and carried the soul to paradise. People who died natural deaths had to rely on their own immortal strength and intelligence to avoid the pitfalls of Xibalba and reach heaven.
It was enough for the Maya that the gods gave people life and sustenance while they lived; they weren’t expected to have to continue guiding someone after death. That job fell to other non-mortal spirits, the souls of the dead, or spirit-dogs. Dogs were regarded highly by the Maya, at the same time they were a food source, because of their relationship with the divine. The dog was neither fully wild nor completely domesticated and so was considered a kind of link between the world of humanity and that of the gods.
Rituals honoring the gods at Chacchoben were conducted here at the Gran Basamento. Astronomy and astrology were of equal importance to the Maya and their cities were constructed in accordance with celestial alignment. At the top of the stairs I’d climbed up sits a stone with a hole bored in it through which the light of the setting sun shines directly at the winter solstice. In the past it would have no doubt illumined some monument or structure below which is now lost. In this same way, at the summer solstice, the morning sun’s rays are focused through the building at the top of Temple 1 directly for a full five minutes.
All around us the jungle hugged the edges of the site. Screeches of monkeys and the shriek of birds came at intervals as we walked silently around the temple. I found it fascinating that there was so little ornamentation. The city is built in the Peten Style such as one finds at Uxmal or Palenque but both of those sites have intricate carvings in their stone work. I wondered what it was about this city that would have caused them to be so austere.
Walking along the path between the ruins of the market, Lisbeth explained that this would have been the area where the upper classes lived. As in all of the cities of the Maya, the wealthy lived in stone houses within the city limits while the peasants lived in huts of thatch on the outskirts.
Our last stop was, for me, the best: the Temple of the Ways. In Maya belief, the Ways (also known as Wayobs) are protective spirits who guide and protect an individual. The Maya believe that every day has its own particular energy conducive to one pursuit or another. If the energy of a day lends itself to work, one will be more productive than if the day’s energy is better suited to recreation. This, a Maya would explain, is why there are some days when you just don’t feel like going to work and other days when you’re more focused and energized.
Every person has a Way who helps them through their lives, calling attention to the energy of a day, and also guides them in the afterlife through Xibalba. Ways appear in dreams with messages from the spirit world and, in the dream, one is brought to the Wayib (the dreaming place) where one is allowed to converse with the gods and the souls of the departed. The Temple of the Ways may have been an incubation house, such as the ancient Egyptians had, where one would go for the solution to a problem. In ancient Egypt, if a woman were having difficulty conceiving, she would go to an incubation house of the fertility god Bes where he would visit her and take care of the problem. In this same way, a Maya might visit the Temple of the Ways to make clearer contact with their particular Way and resolve some difficulty or receive a message about the future.
Visitors are allowed to climb the Temple of the Ways (known as Las Vias) to see the altar in the middle of it. Chacchoben continued as an important centre for pilgrimage even after the city was abandoned c. 950 AD. Incense burners were discovered during excavation dating from this time through 1518 when the Spanish explorers and their missionaries first came to claim the land for Spain and the Christian god. Although there is no documentation for the claim, it is possible that Chacchoben was as vital a religious centre as Tantun Cuzamil on the island of Cozumel, known today as San Gervasio, where the goddess Ix Chel (ee-Shell) once spoke from her statue to the people.
At first this temple seemed little different from others but the longer one looks at the facade the more it comes to resemble a face with the altar as the mouth. Lisbeth is one of the few Maya guides I’ve travelled with who freely admits that her ancient ancestors practiced human sacrifice and I asked her if that would have taken place here. She said it was more probable it would have been observed at Temple 1 and other kinds of offerings would have been made to the Ways.
We left that area and walked back to the parking lot – pausing at one point when a particularly friendly monkey entertained people from the branches of his tree – and then took the mini-bus back to the port. I have some fine memories of my visits to a number of ancient Maya ruins but Chacchoben is now among the best of these. The tranquility of the site is completely soothing but, at the same time, tugs at the mind and tantalizes like a mystery. You just know that this city had an amazing history but you don’t know what it was and so can only speculate. Unlike the better known and well documented Maya sites, Chacchoben opens for a visitor the possibility of imagination and sometimes, in those moments, one feels the story of a people in a way facts and figures could never convey.
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Joshua J. Mark 