The Controversial Mayan Queen: Sak K'uk of Palenque (The Mists of Palenque) (29 page)

August 17, 1994

Last weekend was the celebration of Ascención de la Virgen on August 15, the day the Holy Mother María was assumed into Heaven. I brought Sonia with me to visit my family and attend mass in Palenque town. It’s the custom in my town, after our holy day obligations have been met, to finish our celebration with a fiesta.

Mexicans love fiestas and we have one at the least excuse. Thank goodness there are so many Catholic saints; they give frequent opportunities to take off work and have fun. Our many revolutions also contribute their share to our celebrations. On fiesta days the town sets up bandstands in the central plaza, and we have music and dancing late into the night. Street venders sell food and trinkets while the entire town walks the streets, old and young alike, eating and drinking and talking.

Sonia and I had lunch with the family first, and then took to the streets and plazas to mingle. She was very curious about my Mayan family. I think my father Luis’s knowledge of the ruins surprised her, for they spent much time discussing technical points that few non-professionals can appreciate. My mother María and grandmother Juanita watched Sonia with an appraising eye, partly impressed by her urbane manner, but there was subtle disapproval of her forwardness. I know they’re worried that I’m becoming like her, unfit for village life.

She quizzed my little grandmother – Abuelita as we fondly call her – about life in her village Tumbala, even farther into the forests than the Palenque ruins. Abuelita Juanita seemed flattered as she described the wood-and-mud walled palapas with thatched roofs, the muddy village streets and the one stone church. About 150 people lived there when she was young, but that has dwindled because many villagers migrate to cities seeking work and a modern life. The village routine was familiar. Men left in the mornings for work, either in the milpas or at larger towns doing labor; women tended backyard turkeys and pigs, washed, cooked, sewed and cleaned. The children walked through forest paths to the regional school about an hour away. The single road into the village is still unpaved and turns into deeply rutted mud during the rainy season. My grandmother doesn’t visit there anymore since she has trouble walking.

Later Sonia and I sat on cement benches in the central plaza, the band blaring Mexican disco in our ears, and discussed my family. My grandmother used to come into Palenque to get work sewing and cleaning house, I told her. There she met my grandfather, a mestizo shopkeeper with more Spanish than Maya blood, and he wooed and married her. I’ve seen pictures of Abuelita Juanita when she was young, and she was striking. The photos are not in color, but her pale eyes fairly jump out of her dark face framed by lustrous black hair. My father and his brothers and sisters were all born in Palenque. Of the six children, only three remain here. Visiting with my uncle in Mexico City first exposed me to a metropolis and I was hooked on the excitement and culture. I spent untold hours at the archeological museum that fueled my desire for researching Maya civilization.

Probably my mother regrets those visits, though my father always wanted me to be educated. My sister and brother, who were at our lunch with their families, never had the aptitude for academic study. They seem happy in Palenque town, which now has 37,000 people and a thriving economy in tourism, artisan crafts, restaurants and fiestas. Whether Abuelita Juanita misses her little village I don’t know; she keeps her secrets well. It’s intriguing how she insisted that my parents give her family name, Nokom, to me. I’m the middle grandchild but the only one with blue eyes.

Invariably, our conversations wander back to archeology; a passion Sonia and I share. We sought refuge from the afternoon heat by having a beer inside one of the soothingly dark bars that dot the main streets of Palenque town. Strains of popular tunes drifted through open windows, played loudly and somewhat badly by a local band heavy on brass. Sipping the foamy bitterness that cooled our palates, we reviewed our progress preparing artifacts for shipment to Mexico City. Our restoration skills were required to clean and stabilize many ceramic shards and a few nearly intact bowls. Just as we dropped into some technical details, a familiar form entered the bar and approached our table.

How my father knew he would find us in this obscure bar escapes me. Maybe he’s psychic, or just plain lucky. After hugs and greetings, he sat contentedly and ordered another round of beer. His black eyes twinkled and animated his narrow face with aquiline nose; his dark hair was sprinkled with silver. I knew he relished this opportunity to delve deeply into archeology, one of his favorite topics, with a couple of experts. Probably he tracked us down just for this. And the best thing was, no other family members were around to complain about bored or make us change the topic.

“Don Luis, tell me more about your recent visit to San Cristóbal,” Sonia entreated with her seductive smile. It works every time. I’ve watched it turn a number of men in our team into panting puppies eager to please. My father is a bit more self-contained, but he was happy to elaborate. San Cristóbal de la Cases is a captivating city set high atop a 2200-meter mountain south of Palenque. It has a distinct European ambiance – or so people who’ve been to Europe tell me – with its many espresso cafés, bookshops, art galleries and fine international restaurants.

“Ah, the lovely San Cristóbal,” he responded with the hand wave we use to signal a distant place. “Yes, I took a group of tourists there to visit the Frans Blom museum and enjoy the mountain coolness. A good place to go during the summer in Chiapas, no?”

We clinked beer bottles in acknowledgement.

“I must go there before returning to Mexico City when our project ends,” Sonia said with enthusiasm.

“Yes, yes, and be sure to visit the museum. Do you know much about it?” When we both shook our heads, he continued with relish.

“It was originally a monastery in ruins when Blom and his wife Gertrude bought it in 1950. They rebuilt it around the existing interior patio, preserving the style with colonnaded walkways and large rooms. It’s brightly painted in deep yellow and red, with beautiful walled gardens full of native plants and trees that are still donated for reforestation. They created a cultural center where Frans’ Mayan artifacts and Trudi’s documentary photos were featured. Frans had an exceptional collection of books on Mayan culture, and he opened this library to the public. To raise funds, they took in guests who dined at the long table in the dining room. Many were tourists and locals, but they also housed archeologists working in the area.

“They named it Casa Na Bolom, a pun on Blom’s name and the Mayan word for jaguar, Bolom or Bahlam. Did you know that the locals called Frans ‘Pancho Bolom’? It was a great compliment to associate him with the sacred jaguar. They both had a special relationship with the nearby Lacandon Maya, always keeping a free room open for them when they came to San Cristóbal. The Lacandon Mayas lived deep in the jungles and were the only indigenous group never conquered by the Spanish. Now the complex is operated by a nonprofit group of volunteers, who keep it open as a museum, hotel and restaurant. They donate funds to community projects and the jungle Mayas.”

My father paused to sip his beer, looking pensive. Then he launched into tour guide mode, regaling us with Blom’s contributions to Mayan research.

“Frans Blom loved the Mayas, and Palenque in particular. Some say that modern scientific investigation of Palenque began with him. He was Danish, an explorer and archeologist who came to Mexico in 1919 and worked in Tabasco oil fields. He became fascinated by Maya ruins in the area, especially Tortuguero. While in Mexico City recovering from malaria – seems that most European Mayanists got this nasty disease – he worked for Mexican archeologist Manuel Gamio who was impressed by his sketches and notes. Gamio sent Blom to Palenque in 1922 to survey the site and report on ideas for conserving the ruins, which were by then quite famous. Those drawings were so good, they inspired archeologists Sylvanus Morley and Alfred Tozzer to help Blom get a scholarship to Harvard University, where he earned a Masters Degree in Archeology in 1925.”

My father went on to describe more of Blom’s life, over another round of beers. I’ll try to summarize what he said.

In the 1923 report on Palenque, Blom mapped structures beyond the central area and assigned roman numerals to unnamed buildings. We still use Blom’s numbering system. He improvised to make some repairs, noted buildings that were damaged, drew floor plans and copied hieroglyphic texts. He emphasized that a road from Montecristo to Palenque was essential, to reduce expense and delay transporting material from the river to the site. He cut logs for later construction of buildings to house guardians, a museum and laboratory.

Before doing his work, Blom had to cut down forest growth. He arrived by the old trail that led to a “fairy tale palace beyond description.” He was so struck that he could not begin cutting for days as he walked past ancient temples immersed in the “world’s most beautiful forest. Lianas and orchids and other tropical verdure” covered all the structures and his job was to tear that floral beauty down. The roofs of every temple and palace were covered in “a solid carpet of wild pink begonias” and with “each machete slash my heart was bleeding.”

When Blom returned to Palenque in 1925, he found that objects from the museum had been taken. The caretaker had saved fragments with glyphs and figures from the Cross Group. Two stucco reliefs from the Temple of the Cross were now flanking the front doors of the town church, the same reliefs that Stephens had seen in a private house in the 1830s. Due to such pilfering, Blom stressed the importance of protecting and conserving Palenque’s precious art.

Blom had some precocious ideas about Maya hieroglyphs. He believed that a linguistic approach was necessary because the glyphs express sound and the writing system was at least partly phonetic. He spoke four languages and could read earlier studies in those languages. This exposed him to ideas about phoneticism and historical content that ran counter to the established view. His mentor Morley believed Maya glyphs did not express sounds, but were ideograms expressing ideas. Morley thought the inscriptions were calendrical and astronomical observations, not historic information. Much later, however, the sciences of linguistics and epigraphy vindicated Blom’s ideas

My father was getting a bit worked up, and spoke adamantly.

“Blom thought scholars needed to learn the Mayan language before they’d unravel the secrets of the glyphs. And more important, they should study Maya thought processes to get a true picture of Maya culture. All those Europeans, they think they know the Mayas, but until they enter the Mayan mind they won’t really understand.”

We three sat quietly, pondering European hubris. I wondered if Sonia was offended, she is of pure Castilian descent as are most Mexican archeologists; not mestizos like my family. But more of us are entering the scientific world; we mixed breeds of Spanish and Mayan blood.

“So what happened to Blom’s work?” I asked mainly to get the tale finished.

“Ah, that’s a sad story,” my father replied. “He had problems with alcohol and his first wife divorced him in the 1930s. He was never so productive again. Blom loved the Maya world, and finished his life in San Cristóbal. He met his second wife Gertrude in the surrounding jungles, where she was photographing the legendary Lacandon Mayas in the mid-1940s. With her inheritance, they bought the monastery and turned it into a Maya cultural and scientific center. It is their tribute to the Mayas.”

Dusk was gathering, the streets swelling again with revelers and the bands blaring interminably on. Glancing at his watch, my father sighed.

“I must return home, María will not be happy if I stay out any longer.”

“We’ve got to get back to camp,” I said patting his arm fondly.

“Don Luis, thank you so much for telling us about Frans Blom.” Sonia’s smile was now softer and appreciative.

We paid our bill and said our goodbyes, my father trudging homeward and the two of us finding a combi to take us back to the archeological site.

Ensconced in my cot with journal in lap, I’m finishing a few remarks of the day.

Here is my favorite Blom quote, probably because I’m part Maya.

“The scientist trained with a foundation of European knowledge has absorbed the arrogant idea that his learning is a world pattern, and that it is impossible for other peoples to develop individual lines of thought that amount to anything. Not until he shapes himself to the psychology of the people will he succeed in understanding
them
and their characters.”

In 1939, President Lazaro Cardenas created INAH, Instituto Nacional de Antropología y Historia. It’s the government agency responsible for exploration of archeological sites, conservation and restoration of monuments and artifacts, and publication of research. Cardenas visited Palenque many times and valued the ancient Maya cities as part of Mexico’s cultural heritage. INAH has done much to stop the removal of artifacts from the sites.

German scientist Heinrich Berlin joined the Palenque team in 1940. He directed the renovation and conservation of the Palace Tower, which was especially vulnerable because of its height. It had sustained damage by trees growing out of cracks in the masonry. Berlin supervised excavations at Templo Olvidado, the best-preserved structure found in the forests west of the central area, and first reported by Frans Blom. The temple’s well-preserved date glyphs fascinated Berlin, and his long career studying epigraphy had its beginning there.

Berlin’s great epigraphic discovery some years later was that each Maya polity had an Emblem Glyph that combined a pair of phonetic signs, one standing for “ahau” or lord and the other representing the city itself.

For Palenque these glyphs would read: K’uhul B’aakal Ahau.

August 22, 1994

Standing at the base of the pyramid, head tilted back, my eyes travel up its steep front, level by level. This is Pakal’s burial monument, and it is magnificent. Constructed in a short time between 675-683 CE, the Pyramid of the Inscriptions is the dominant pyramid of the central plaza. It stands just west of the Palace and has a string of smaller pyramids jutting from its northwest side. Soaring 23 meters above plaza level on an almost square base, the pyramid’s nine stacked levels decrease in size as they rise. The base is 60 meters wide by 42.5 meters deep, making it a massive structure. A narrow stairway ascends the front, flanked by two decorative slabs. A few short, wider stairs complete the descent to the ground.

On the top level a platform supports the pyramid Temple. The shape of this harmonious building reflects the central canons of ancient Maya architecture: rectangular structure with mirror-image symmetry, sloping roofline, overhanging eaves, corbelled arch and delicate roofcomb. Inside, a wall divides the structure into two long parallel rooms and supports the capstone, where the faces of both interior vaults converge to form the corbelled arch. Five doors flanked by panels open into the long front gallery, with three interior doors giving access to rear chambers. The central rear chamber is largest and holds the amazing hieroglyphic tablets that give the Temple its name. These are attached to the back wall and figuratively “look out” over Palenque’s main plaza. Exquisitely carved in the flowing glyphic style unique to Palenque, the panels are covered with a single continuous inscription of 617 glyphs, the second longest in any Maya site.

Although the text carved on the tablets is not fully deciphered, we know the themes interweave Palenque’s dynastic history with specific rituals performed by rulers to honor their three patron gods, the Palenque Triad. Rituals celebrating Katun endings from 514 CE (9.4.0.0.0) to 672 CE (9.12.0.0.0) are included. These calendar rituals devoted to the gods are juxtaposed with realities of politics and warfare, including the 611 CE attack by Kalakmul. The inscriptions conclude with records of the death of Pakal’s wife, Tz’aakb’u Ahau in 672 and of Pakal in 683. The final passage notes the accession of his oldest son, Kan Bahlam II. We believe that Pakal’s son completed construction of the Temple of the Inscriptions shortly after his father’s death.

The late afternoon sun sends shafts of golden light through the Temple roofcomb, and the beauty moves me. Behind the pyramid a steep hill rises; the builders used its bedrock face to support the back terraces. Ancient Maya architects often used already existing hills to amplify the terraces of buildings, effectively merging pyramids into sacred mountains. The dense foliage covering the hill is deepening green and I realize only a couple of hours of daylight remain. If I’m to visit the burial chamber of Pakal, I must hurry.

Skirting the left side of the pyramid, I scramble up the stony path that climbs the hillside toward the upper platform. This is the way we access the Temple, since the front stairs are roped off for cleaning and stabilization. From this high vantage, I can see the last few tourists straggling down well-worn paths toward the exit. I waited until the archeological site was near closing to avoid contending with tourists inside the cramped interior space of the pyramid. As I step on the top platform, the guard casts a scowl at me until he recognizes that I’m with the archeological team. He smiles and we exchange a few niceties; I sympathize with his boredom and eagerness to get home for dinner. Explaining that I need to check a few details for our research, I’m relieved as he gestures for me to enter the Temple.

I cannot walk into the Temple of the Inscriptions without a sense of awe descending upon me. Stucco decorations still survive on four of the six front piers, though the outer two are badly eroded. These four piers depict rulers standing atop monster masks; each holding an infant who we believe is Pakal. One foot of the infant turns into a long snake with a vision serpent mouth, a well-known symbol for the youngest Triad God, Unen K’awill who was patron of royal dynasties. The adult figures appear to be ancestors, and it is likely that the two on the central piers are Pakal’s parents, Sak K’uk and Kan Mo Hix. In this powerful symbolism on Pakal’s mortuary monument, the people of Palenque would understand that their beloved ruler was being born into the otherworld as their own dynastic god.

Entering the Temple through the central door, I pass into the rear chamber containing the tablets of inscriptions. Standing before this incredible artistic masterpiece, I bow my head in homage as if entering a cathedral. Once again my eyes feast upon the intricate carvings, glyph after glyph of stylized beings, fanciful creatures, perplexing symbols, and the dots and bars of Maya numbers. For me, it’s a near-mystical experience. I yearn to spend more time studying epigraphy so I can read these glyphs myself.

To my right is the stairway that descends to Pakal’s tomb. Only the upper few steps are visible in the dim lighting, and the stairs plummet quickly into semi-darkness. Although I’ve gone down these stairs many times, I never overcome a feeling of uncertainty, as if treading any further might put me in danger. Maybe it’s my sense of intruding into an extremely sacred space, still watched over by disapproving spirit guardians. Pakal’s people went to great lengths to prevent his tomb from discovery and to discourage entry by totally obstructing the passage with rubble. I murmur a few prayers to placate the spirits, and respectfully request permission to enter.

Taking a deep breath, I step down and carefully descend. The stairway is very narrow, the steps slippery and the walls feel oppressively close. When I touch them to stabilize myself, my hands feel moisture on the irregular surfaces. Above me the corbelled arch ceiling gives an eerie impression of pressing downward. The stairs ahead come into faint view as I move from one suspended overhead light to the next. Is it purposeful that INAH keeps the lights dim, maybe to prevent deterioration? The deeper I go inside the pyramid, the more humid and dank the air becomes. It was quite warm outside, but the heat within is intense and stifling. Soon I’m covered in sweat.

Reaching the landing about halfway down, I know the stairs take a sharp 180-degree turn before completing the descent. Here I rest momentarily and wipe sweat from my eyes. I note the small, square stone tube that lines the entire stairway and leads into the burial chamber. This is the psychoduct that served as a conduit for the ruler’s spirit to communicate with the world above. With renewed determination, I continue slowly, step by slippery step, until I arrive at the bottom landing that is slightly below ground level, 22 meters under the Temple platform above. The huge triangular slab that closed the entrance to the burial vault stands to one side where it had been moved by Alberto Ruz’ team that discovered Pakal’s tomb in 1952. INAH had a barrier gate placed to prevent tourists from entering the chamber, but that allows a view inside. Resting my forearms on the gate, I peer into Pakal’s tomb.

The chamber is almost completely filled from wall to wall with the huge stone sarcophagus in which Pakal was interred. It is rectangular, 9 by 4 meters made from a single slab. The lid is a quarter of a meter thick and weighs five tons. Amazing arrays of carvings adorn the sarcophagus lid, considered perhaps the finest work done by any ancient Mayas. Pakal is shown in a slightly curled position, hovering over the maw of an earth monster. From his torso rises the Wakah Chan Te, the Maya World Tree. Flourishes of emerging corn sprout from its arms and a celestial bird soars above. Other figures and glyphs are carved on the lid and the border. On each side of the sarcophagus base are carved the figures of Pakal’s dynasty, including his grandmother Yohl Ik’nal and mother Sak K’uk. On the walls of the chamber is a curious parade of life-size figures.

The sarcophagus holds a fish-shaped box that originally contained Pakal’s skeleton. Pakal’s burial treasure is legendary, his jade death mask world-famous, his body covered with jade, pearls, obsidian and shells. The funerary goods to accompany him on the Underworld journey were profuse. In addition, the bones of five sacrificial companions were found. Now most of these burial goods, including Pakal’s skeleton, have been moved to INAH laboratories and museums in Mexico City for preservation and display.

As always, I am nearly overcome with emotion as I contemplate the burial chamber of Palenque’s greatest ruler. Leaning forward to glimpse the carvings on the side of the sarcophagus, I strain to focus on their features. It’s hard to see in the dim light, and I want to climb over the barrier and squeeze into the chamber, but my professional training restrains me. I yearn to know everything I can about these people in Pakal’s world, how he related to his ancestors and relatives, who the figures are that line the chamber walls. We still don’t fully understand the symbolism carved on the sarcophagus lid. There is so much more to learn from the Mayan glyphs.

Paying homage to the great ruler Janaab Pakal, to his lineage and his people, I bow my head and whisper my thanks for this visit. A sudden sensation of tingling spreads through my arms and chest, and my ears are filled with buzzing sounds. My whole insides seem to be humming and I fear that I’m going to faint. Plopping to the floor, I take several deep breaths and shake my head to clear it. After a few moments, the sensations dissipate. Rising slowly and testing my balance, I feel reasonable stable. Maybe my brain oxygen level dropped in the stuffy air. I turn and begin the long ascent, taking the stairs as rapidly as I can although it makes me breathless and even sweatier. I know the guard is getting impatient for I’ve been down in the vault longer than I should.

This experience is so vivid that I’ve written in present tense. I am ever there.

K’inich Janaab Pakal II is considered the greatest of all Mayan kings. He acceded when only 12 years old, in 615 CE. I’m sure his mother Sak K’uk co-ruled for several years. Ruz and Romano say he died at 40, but the American school contends he lived to the ripe old age of 80, dying in 683 CE. The city was in chaos during his early childhood, devastated by the attack from Kalakmul and Bonampak in 611. It must have left deep impressions on his young mind. By middle age he had instituted a tremendous building program; he and his sons and grandson built most of the structures we now see. It’s hard to even imagine what Palenque looked like before.

K’inich Janaab Pakal exploded dramatically on the archeological scene with the work of Alberto Ruz Lhuillier. Ruz was born in Paris to a Cuban father and French mother, went to college in Havana, Cuba and specialized in pre-Columbian Mesoamerican archeology. He moved to Mexico in 1936 and became a citizen. In 1945 he took charge of INAH’s investigations at Palenque with the goal of establishing a complete archeological chronology based on hieroglyphic texts, architectural and ceramic sequences. In 1949 he guided excavations in the Palace, finding the Palace Tablet relief and recording 150 unique images in House E that continue to challenge scholars. We believe House E was a very special sacred shrine during those times.

The Temple of the Inscriptions caught Ruz’ attention because its size suggested possible substructures from earlier times. Probes into the supporting platforms did not find earlier structures, however, confirming that the pyramid was built in a very short period in the late 7
^th
century, just as the glyphs stated. While workers were cleaning the floor of the Temple, Ruz saw it was made of huge flat stones instead of the usual stucco. One of the stones had holes drilled near the edges, into which carved plugs were inserted. Checking out this unusual stone, Ruz found a shallow cavity underneath, cleared it of debris and saw a gigantic stone crossbeam. Under the crossbeam he saw two stone steps leading downward. The stairs were filled with stones and rubble.

Ruz knew the stairs must lead to something. Soon the crew started clearing the stairs, laboring in a narrow space in sweltering heat and choking dust. They chipped away at the wall of rubble filling the passage from floor to ceiling, removing stones by buckets up the ever-descending stairway. At one point the workers reached a landing and thought the stairs had ended, but instead there was a sharp turn and the passage continued to descend into the heart of the pyramid. It required three years to remove all the rubble.

In June 1952 the excavators reached bottom. They found a narrow vaulted chamber leading to a huge triangular stone, set vertically and slightly recessed. After they pried the stone open slightly with lever poles, Ruz squeezed through into a large vaulted chamber. Shining his flashlight into the dark chamber, Ruz beheld glistening walls and sparkling stalactites of limestone, like a subterranean crystalline cathedral. Inside, almost filling the chamber, he saw an immense rectangular box covered with elaborately carved top and sides, covered with figures and glyphs. Glistening limestone deposits on the walls of the chamber almost obscured the life-size, ornately attired figures in low-relief stucco that covered them.

At that time, Ruz and other archeologists had no idea who these figures might be. No one could read Maya glyphs in 1952, except for dates.

The archeologists thought the box was solid and functioned as an altar. Juan Chablé, the master stonemason, requested permission to drill a small hole into the side to confirm that it was solid. A few months later Ruz agreed, and Chablé drilled into the huge stone box, finding that it was hollow. They realized the cover was a lid. The team arranged to lift the lid, a five-ton slab, with automobile jacks. This revealed an inner fish-shaped box, set flush with the exactly carved insides of the huge stone box. Then they realized they were dealing with a sarcophagus. The lid of the fish-shaped box was raised using holes put there by the Maya. What Ruz and team saw inside is considered the greatest discovery of Mesoamerican archeology.

There lay the skeleton of a tall man, 1.65 meters, wearing an exquisite jade mask, necklaces, earspools, bracelets and surrounded by treasures as never before seen. The richness of Pakal’s burial has been compared to that of King Tutankhamen of Egypt.