Before we left for Guatemala, I spent a week convincing my dad to bring me to Tikal, the remnants of a Mayan city located in the middle of the rainforest in the northern part of the country. It started out as tiny village, but towards the end of the first millennium it became a great ceremonial center, full of the plazas, palaces, and pyramids whose remains I was eager to climb. Presently, only ten-square-miles of the city have been uncovered; the rest is cocooned within the two-hundred-odd miles of wilderness surrounding it on all sides, providing a powerful contrast to the manmade ruins.

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It took us six hours. We left Palo Blanco, the small southern village where my dad grew up, in the first hours of the morning. He drove the beat up, safety-hazard of a vehicle he owned - a scuffed red minivan without seatbelts or airbags - a mockery of the shiny red pickup he used back home in Boston. For most of the trip, I slept with my head on my aunt’s lap, startling awake intermittently when bumps in the road would boost us out of our seats and into the roof of the van. 

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When we finally reached the outer gates of Tikal National Park and paid the fee for our entry, the sun was high in the sky, raising the temperature into the eighties. The long, winding road that led us further into the park was bathed with brightness, highlighting lush trees and wooden signs cautioning us against disturbing the wildlife. Warm, sticky air rushed through the open windows of the van, and birdcalls echoed, like the soundtrack of a nature documentary or a noise machine. It was beautiful to listen to, but it didn’t feel quite real. It wasn’t until we parked in a busy lot that the electricity of the atmosphere struck me. 

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Walking around Tikal is like walking between worlds. I exited the van to find the perimeter of the lot full of vendors selling freshly cut coconuts and mangoes. As we walked toward the information center, we came across stalls selling colorful souvenirs – everything from hand-carved key chains of quetzal, Guatemala’s national bird, to traditional wares, mugs, and screen printed t-shirts. The people who sold their fruit and their keepsakes seemed about as accustomed to the splendor as they could be. I fleetingly wondered if they were no more excited to come to work than gift shop employees at Six Flags. The thought seemed ridiculous, especially once we left the present behind and were faced with the first of the pyramids, but I suppose the novelty wears off after a while, even in ancient civilizations.

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The pyramids and temples were considerably smaller than city skyscrapers, but they loomed more powerfully than any structure made of steel and glass ever could. Though there were plenty of tourists around, the air felt heavy. The sun was out, but the dark stone seemed to absorb the light. Climbing the temples, legs burning, I considered how many others had taken the same path. The number was surely too high to estimate, and too diverse to begin to imagine. Mayans with their bare feet, tourists with their backpacks, scientists and anthropologists with their equipment. It was a dizzying thought.

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Yet I felt settled once I focused on the other visitors, breathing with effort alongside me on the temple stairs or traversing the grass-covered spaces between them. Their excited chatter, obvious despite language differences, mingled in a harmony not unlike that of the birds in the forest. Knowing that we were all sharing the weight of this place in the present made me less overwhelmed.

 

When I reached the uppermost platform of Temple IV, the tallest in Tikal, I spun in a circle in an attempt to take it all in. In hindsight, I don’t think it’s possible. The sight of my surroundings made me vaguely uncomfortable, and even with my father beside me, the blurring treetops created a sense of isolation. There’s no way to be at peace in Tikal. It’s too big and too old. But it’s too open and too green to panic. There was too much to see to be relaxed, but I somehow wasn’t too worried about missing something. In places that have been around for thousands of years, you get the feeling that you’ll have time to drift in their direction again, even if it’s not the case.

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Tikal is inarguably magnificent, in its sheer stature and the intricacy of its structures, in the details that remain in the carefully carved stone. The remains are ruins by definition, but that’s almost a relief. It was staggering enough in its current condition. Things that are broken aren’t supposed to be hard to believe, and yet. Its deterioration allowed me to recognize the moment as happening in the present, but also served to remind me of the city’s unfathomable age and influence. 

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Even from three thousand miles away, I feel as though I am wrapped up in its mystery. Reading about the countless excursions that historians and civilians alike have staged upon it, the countless minutes spent observing these giant stone pyramids or tiny hieroglyphic carvings, brings me back to the time I spent exploring it myself. All of the conclusions we draw, and all the theories we dream up about places like Tikal are valid in their own way, whether they are based in science, or simply the wave of feeling that overcomes us when we just stand still and look.