Our Man in Mexico: Xochicalco September 19, 2021
We are driving south from Cuernavaca in search of antiquity on the road used by Mexico City vacationers to reach Acapulco, which is still recovering from an earthquake 10 days ago. How far away the Pacific Ocean is, however, is entirely unclear. One sign indicates 262 km, the next 216, the next 280. It is as if the crust is expanding and contracting as we travel. These sign makers really ought to compare notes sometime.
We manage to arrive at the ruins of Xochicalco at an opportune moment. No sooner do I pay my entrance fee of 80 pesos (Mexicans are free) than I am informed of an imminent earthquake drill. This is a momentous date, as the massive quake of 1985 occurred on this day, and another struck on the same day in 2017. I am resolved that, should a quake strike today, I will pledge allegiance to any and all gods responsible for this seismic Chingadera.
No alarm sounds at the 11 am drill. We are told simply to assemble at a painted circle, the designated muster point, about twenty feet away, and stand there for five minutes. There we wait. In the distance, down the rounded hill, is a lake that was made when this was once a city of maybe 20,000 people. They were the original residents of Xochicalco, and their existence, and abrupt disappearance three centuries later, are couched in mystery. The present residents of the nearby towns speak Nahautl and are not believed to be the original settlers, having settled at the foot of the ruins in 1200 AD, long after the pyramid-builders had gone.
The pyramids and other stone structures—including ball courts, an astronomical observatory, temazcal, and plenty of steps—were erected sometime around 600 AD and inhabited until 900 AD. Who they were remains subject to debate, but the wall art suggests a mix of influences, including Maya and, particularly intriguing, Olmec. Due to the timing of their rise, speculation has it that these people may have played a part in the destruction of Teotihuacan to the north, which occurred around 600 AD. The subsequent demise of Xochicalco itself also has a nefarious signature, as there is evidence in the excavations of a great fire.
As I ponder the elaborate stone carvings on the Temple of the Feathered Serpent, whose sinuous body extends for forty feet and engulfs a series of crouching, thick-lipped priests, my mind turns to snakes of a more contemporary nature. In particular, I recall the jade-encrusted Olmec mask found by the father of my friend Wilbur, and how his attempt to deliver the mask to proper anthropological authorities in Mexico City cost the man his life at the hands of his own brother. The story Wilbur felt compelled to write about the family betrayal so scared him that he turned it into fiction. Then came the man’s personal struggles last year—the fall from his sleeping hammock, the veterinary painkillers, the abandoned burrito business. I have not seen poor Wilbur for 10 months. I naturally assume the worst.
On the road out of Xochicalco, traffic is stalled for a walking funeral procession, lead by pallbearers and a woman swinging a burning fragrant urn. We take advantage of the delay and buy some roadside tamales, which are as flat as crepes. The return trip to Cuernavaca is threatening to become an ordeal. We could just turn around and head south to the beach, but there is no telling how far away that might be at the moment.