Legend

At The Observatory

Long journeys. So hot, so oppressive, yet in retrospect, so exotic and
exiting. I am always a little amused at the tricks memory plays on us.
Remaking experience, transforming the banal into the extraordinary.
Perhaps all things contain elements of strangeness. It just requires a
little critical distance to fully appreciate their true import. I
believe in the significance of what happened to me that night at Monte
Alban. I felt even then that something was happening that would remain
imprinted on my memory for the rest of my life. And years have gone by
since then, and I still return to those electrifying moments. They
still dazzle me, still blind my understanding.

We had travelled over night from the human whirlpool that was Mexico
City. The dusty roads carried us south across miles of unknown
territory, obstinately mysterious, swathed in the humid darkness of the
early summer. It was a long night. Sleep had evaded me and the cramped
bus was hot, the air filled with the sweat and stale exhalations of
exhausted fellow travellers. A few seats behind me, a radio was
playing, the music low but distinctThat famous Mexican salsa that
haunted my every waking hour and lately had pursued me into my dreams.
I would gaze out of the window into obscurity, catching occasional
lights, glimpsing dimly lit houses passing by as we rushed through
unseen streets. Miles and miles of trackless country and the ancient
smell of earth and toil that came to me sometimes, as I sat, my mind
racing.

My thoughts kept me awake, wild, exited thoughts filled with future
adventure, alive with crazy possibility. I didn't feel the fatigue of
the months of constant travel that lay behind me. As the warm light of
approaching dawn illuminated the sky, my senses became sharper. Our
destination drew nearer. A brand new day filled with all things new and
unfamiliar.

Finding rooms in what was described in the guide book as a hotel but,
in truth, was a very busy brothel, only served to emphasise the feeling
of walking into another world. I had left far behind me the confines of
my English life. Things at home seemed ludicrously puritanical as I
observed the comings and goings of the brightly painted 'hostesses' and
their drunken male companions. But the place was busy, its'denizens
friendly and, above all, it was the cheapest room I'd ever come across.
I resisted the temptation to lay down for a moment on the clean, narrow
bed. Exploration seemed a far more attractive proposition.

Oaxaca, a small, bustling Mexican town, was a jewel to me as I strode
out in the early morning sun-shine. The streets were filled with
people, all shouting and singing, running here and there with baskets
of grain, and fruit. Antique faces, skins made into parchment from
years in the hot sun, smiling toothlessly. Tiny children pulling at my
jacket , their small voices whispering 'Por Favor'. At the centre of
things lay a neat square and here the people congregated. Around the
fountain or in the many cafes and little restaurants, gathered the old
and the young, the Indians and foreigners. Here was the heart of the
community.

In the evening the square, or Zocolo as it is known in Spanish, was
filled with lights and the strident music of the Mariachi bands. I sat
alone at a corner cafe sipping very strong Cuba Libres, taking in the
scene, occasionally writing in my journal. And it was then that I saw
her for the first time. Moving slowly and exceptionally carefully
through the crowds was the oldest woman that I had ever seen. She moved
from table to table, a tiny, desiccated hand outstretched. Grey or
dun-coloured rags, remnants of garments, covered a frame that was
surely no more than bones and sinew. Her face was partially hidden in a
old shawl but what was visible seemed wizened by years far exceeding
any natural human lifespan. She was a creature from a dream.

As she moved closer to me, I became hobbled closer and I could detect
her smell, old linen and beyond that, something sweeter, like incense
or myrrh. Then she moved away, passing through spaces between groups of
chatting people until she was lost to me. The impression she left was
singular and confusing. I felt something significant had occurred
although I was unable to identify what. That night I slept and my sleep
was filled with unremembered dreams.

Travelling is a gathering in of experiences, a sort of capturing of
people and places. I have captured many places and untold numbers of
people. I have their nuances and flavours stored in my memory like fine
wines in an aristocratic cellar. The nature of every country and city,
every hotel and taxi ride, every ruin and megalithic stone is carefully
preserved. I have always been searching and never really finding .. But
my journeys have been fascinating and I have seen many interesting
things. I am especially interested in ancient sites and I had come to
Oaxaca with the intention of visiting a famous Mayan monument, Monte
Alban. It had been used in ancient times by priests and philosophers as
a kind of observatory, a high point from which to gaze at the stars. It
stood a short from the town at the top of an arid incline. Not much to
look at really, just an arrangement of broken pyramidal structures, the
melancholy emptiness of long plundered tombs and a kind of windswept
desolation. But it was bathed in history. Even the few words written
about it in the tourists maps resonated in me.

I stood on the upper steps of a sacrificial platform and gazed down
into the valley stretching far bellow me. A hot wind was gusting all
around and I felt a kind of exultation. Turning back towards the open
landscape of shattered stones and scorched vegetation I noticed,
against a backdrop of shimmering heat, a figure. I raised a hand to my
brow and shading my eyes from the merciless sunlight, I recognised her.
That strange old woman. She was standing motionless in the centre of
what had been a ceremonial courtyard. Her rages and robes flew around
her, animated by the wind. Her face was uncovered, ravaged but noble
and I felt, even at this distance, that she was staring directly at me.
Then grains of course sand blew upwards and into my eyes. I was
shocked, momentarily blinded. When my eyes had stopped streaming, the
courtyard was deserted and Monte Alban was mine alone.

A man more emotionally overwrought than I might have made something of
this puzzling experience, concocted some outlandish meaning. But I
pride myself on my pragmatism. I've always thought of myself as
rational and cool-headed. So I continued my explorations and the rest
of the day passed as expected. In the evening I strode through the
crowded streets heading for my cafe, observing the scene and reviewing
my day. Thoughts of the old woman returned to me and I wondered if I
would see her during the evening. The zocolo was again bustling, and a
band was playing loud and melodious local music under the trees. The
evening was warm and a combination of strong rum and warm physical
exhaustion conspired to lull me into a kind of dreamstate, languorous
and relaxed. All light and music, song and soft edges, the scenes of
revelry before me seemed insubstantial and delightfully unreal. A soft
voice came to me.
'Senor.'
I looked up. A girl was standing near my table. Young, no more than
twenty and possessed of the dark skin and cascading black hair of the
people of this region. She mocked me with her expression and I had the
bizarre sensation that behind the bland innocence of her face, lay
something shrewd, a kind of hardness.
'Senor, quieres tomar una copa de vino conmigo?'
I was already feeling the effects of too much alcohol so I refused her
offer of wine and yet she remained as if waiting for something. There
was a moment of tense silence in which we took the measure of each
other. She drew nearer to me and it seemed that she wanted to whisper
something to me. The bright silver of her rings and necklaces against
the smooth dark of her Mexican skin. A fragrance of cedar or
frankincense. It seemed she might kiss me. The world was spinning. Did
I imagine the hard points of her teeth against the skin of my
throat?

I opened my eyes and found myself alone. The bars and cafes were still
filled with careless laughter and music. But suddenly, I felt removed
from it. It was trivial, superficial and I felt the need to be alone.
To think. To gather my thoughts. To recover from the rather unnerving
experience of being toyed with by a local girl. The sky above me was
brilliant with stars, the moon was rising and I thought of Monte Alban.
A perfect place for contemplation. The way was rough on foot but the
journey was relatively short . So I set off, hearing the beat of my
heart in my temples and the coursing of the warm blood throught my
veins.

Moonlight. The distilled essence of deception. Nothing is reliable when
bathed in its chilly radiance. By night, the ruins were a very
different place. I stumbled into enclosed places I swore I had not
found in daylight. The monumental steps and carved surfaces cast
confusing shadows and areas of masonry unnoticed in the crude light of
noon, were balefully highlighted in the lonely hours before dawn. I
felt disorientated but alive. Moving through the quiet avenues all the
while gazing skyward, I caught my breath from time to time as
meteorites flashed and burnt.

The central courtyard was silent and lit with icy starlight. And there
the reason, I suppose that I had made my midnight journey. She stood
patiently waiting, a woman unfathomably ancient and startlingly young.
I approached, eager for her embrace. Her silver trinkets like fragments
of memory. Her perfume, ointment of incense, libation of time. The
agonising moment of rapture as the blood was taken from me. And sleep
and sleep and somewhere far off, the sound of girlish
laughter......................

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