Haibun by Allen McGill

YUCATAN



 

We sail from Cozumel in the darkness of the early hours. Javier, the boatman, has much less enthusiasm than I, but agrees when the mordida, or bribe, reaches the right amount. He carries a kerosene lantern to light our way across the rocks to his wooden boat.

Doubts intrude when I see how truly black the sea is beyond the lamp, and imagine the treacherous coral jutting upward just below the surface. We push off with only the flickering yellow from a lamp on deck, and paddle until Javier deems it safe to start the motor.

a single flame
deepens the darkness
the wooden hull creaks

I doze, lulled by the rocking motion, awakened by the sudden silence and a nudge from Javier. He motions west.

Tulum! The white temple glows pink as the first rays of morning dart across the Caribbean to the Yucatan coast. They ease into a pale yellow, then flare golden as the sun continues to rise.

from atop a cliff
the ancients watched for dawn
waves flow silently

We gaze in wonder. Javier, a native Yucatecan, as much in awe as I. We ease toward the shore and I jump onto the rocky beach. He passes my backpack to me, then shoves off. I turn.

Tulum is mine, if only for a short while. My time is limited. I scramble up to the temple to sit and gaze at the blue and green patterns stretching into the sunrise.

All too soon, the raucous grind of tour buses arriving breaks the silence. It's time to leave.

Beneath a palapa, hut, just outside the temple site, I collect the motor scooter I'd arranged to rent for the main portion of my trip. The old attendant looks curiously at me. I use my broken Spanish, only to learn that his is more limited than mine. Since I speak no Mayan, gestures must suffice.

jungle shade
the oldest language
unites two worlds

I head west toward the heart of the peninsula. It grows hot and humid, the road pitted and often blocked with palm branches.

Time is running short, but eventually I reach the turnoff for the ancient city, Chichén Itzá.

The Plaza of Kukulkán surrounding the Grand Pyramid is crowded with sightseers. I've arrived just in time. The hordes grow silent as the narrow strip of shade beside the steps begins to flow slowly downward from the brilliant blue sky. Quetzalcoatl, the feathered serpent god, slithers to earth once more, as he does every equinox.

as the sun peaks
its rays evoke life
I watch mesmerized

The shadow descends for hours before gradually fading away with the sunlight. The seasonal collaboration of earth and sky is complete.

I rush to climb the rough stone steps to the summit. The world is splayed below: jungle, plaza and the endless sky. I stand where gods once ruled.

twilight
the deep Mayan reliefs
recede in shadow

§ § §

Originally from NYC, Allen lives, writes, acts and directs theatre in Mexico. His published fiction, non-fiction, poetry, plays, etc., have appeared in print as well as on line: NY Times, The Writer, Newsday, Retrozine, Laughter Loaf, Flashquake, Herons Nest, Cenotaph, TempsLibres, Autumn Leaves, Poetic Voices, Amaze-Cinquain, Bottle Rocket, Frogpond, Modern Haiku, World Haiku Review, many others.

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