It is the day of the spring equinox, March 20. The sky is cloudy but bright, and there is a light, cool breeze. It is late. We have missed the first rays of the sun by six hours. The lure of café con leche and huevos con frijoles negros in the nearby town of Papantla was too strong to resist, and we dallied in the market, buying the most charming hearts, flowers, and scorpions woven of supple, darkly fragrant vanilla beans.
No matter. We have the afternoon, and mysteries are unfolding. Just outside the corridor that leads to El Tajin, there is a curious shrine woven of palm fronds, sunflowers and golden marigolds. On the altar are bottles of Pepsi and a tarnished brass bell, but there is no Virgin or saint. Perhaps the shrine is Totonac, dedicated to the Tajin, the 12 gods of thunder, or, since the equinox occurs at planting time, to some deity of spring and fertility.
An old man, black hair streaked with silver, face dark from the sun, stands in front of the shrine, muttering prayers. Dressed in white, he wears huaraches, a red bandana around his neck, and on his brow, a garland of marigolds. He holds up a stick sprouting more marigolds, palm leaves, colored ribbons and a beeswax candle, limp from the heat of the sun. Around him solemn young men and women, also dressed in white, are slowly dancing in two orderly lines.
Almost everyone at El Tajin is dressed in white today, perhaps because we are all seeking a limpia or cleansing by a friendly healer. In the hazy sunlight, the ruins seem different, certainly less magical, but no less mysterious, than they were in the dark. The main site covers two square miles of massive ceremonial pyramids, palaces, plazas and ball courts which appear to have been constructed over a thousand years. Everything about it is a mystery, starting with who built it--Olmecs, some speculate, or perhaps the Huastecs--and why it was abandoned in the 12th century. By the time Cortez arrived, it had been deserted for three centuries, although the Totonacs held it sacred.
The most photographed structure is the Pyramid of the Niches. Painted red, the stepped pyramid shows, according to the magazine Archaeology, “the distinctive slope, niche and cornice construction that is a testament to Meso-American Engineering.” Once covered with carved stone reliefs, this monumental pyramid has 365 evenly spaced, blackened niches, leading many to believe that it was a solar calendar tied to the agricultural cycle. As intriguing are the 17 ball courts, with fragments of carved stone murals depicting not only the game, but also ritual human sacrifice—the losers lost their heads—and the drinking of pulque, an intoxicant made from the leaves of the maguey plant.
At the base of Structure 16, I find my curandera. She is one of five or six who are offering cleansings there—many more are scattered around the grounds—each with a distinctive style. My curandera is old, as thin and fragile as a bird, nearly swallowed up by her voluminous white blouse and long skirt. Under her straw hat, softly worn with use, her brown, heart-shaped face is criss-crossed with a web of fine lines. It is her eyes which have convinced me: Like inverted commas, crinkled at the corners, they are gently inquisitive, kind, intelligent. I like the way she lingers over small children, giving them extra blessings.
When it is my turn, she picks a white carnation from a pile of leaves and flowers and brushes it over my body. She gently presses my forehead and the back of my head with her hands, then touches my arms and chest and—can it be?---my gall bladder which has been unhappy of late. All the while she is murmuring prayers in Spanish, but her voice is so light and thin that it dissolves into the breeze. I can only decipher one phrase: “…sus suenos,” (“your dreams”). At the end, she sprinkles my head with drops of cool, sweet-smelling water, presses my hands, and sends me on. For no reason, tears rush to my eyes.
On our way out of El Tajin, the voladores are flying. I notice that the fifth volador, the Caporal, is dancing quite defiantly atop the 100-foot pole, almost as if he is daring the gods to topple him. Later in the town of Jalapa we hear that a volador at El Tajin had fallen to his death earlier that day.