There are still only a dozen places to stay on this narrow strip of heaven, though more are being built. The dazzling natural beauty removed from the world -- yet only an hour and a half from an international airport -- has drawn creative people from the four directions.

That night I went to dinner at a restaurant on the beach. Tables were arranged both inside and out with wide doors and windows open between. The scent of sea life and salt rode the warm air current that blew continually through the space. On each table candles flickered , while the sound of surf formed a backdrop for the myriad of insects’ nightly song.

The Mayan co ok prepared a traditional whole fish stuffed with local herbs, mouth-wateringly delicious, with a sauce that was strong, pungent, earthy, and completely unique to my palatte.

I sat outside under a sky resplendent with stars, where no false ceiling would seperate me from that larger, infinite cover. On such a night in such a place, my thoughts were drawn out of normal limitations, and I understood the Maya’s fascination with the sky; their commitment to chart it, to name and determine its meaning.

For thousands of years the Maya have studied the sky and have elaborated a complex system of thought about the relationship between the gods and man. So practical are their beliefs that each day has a god. The qualities of that particular god inform the people how to relate to that day so that they may live with assurance that they’re in harmony with the will of the gods. They call it Hanab Ku.
With a tangy margarita made from excellent tequila, my own mind felt momentarily capable of great leaps of epiphany. Later that evening I met a woman traveling with her daughter, and we decided to make the journey together to the Sian Ka’an Reserve the next morning.

We’d been told that it’s only 19 Km. from the reserve entrance to Boca Paila. Great, we’d thought. We’ll be there in half an hour, have a swim and lunch, and be back in time for a siesta under a palapa on the beach. Piece of cake, right? Wrong. Not much more than a dirt path scraped out of the limestone base that makes up the Yucatan peninsula, the “road” was a mass of giant potholes that seemed determined to capture us and drag our poor small vehicle down into the underworld to meet the Mayan gods. I was sure that we could have walked faster and been more comfortable.
 

However, we were a happy group and joked about our circumstances easily, especially considering that to the right was a mass of mysterious green jungle and to our left -- sometimes blocked by more jungle -- was the most beautiful stretch of perfect whitesand beach with swaying stately palm trees that I’ve ever seen. We weren’t exactly suffering, just becoming a little seasick as our vehicle swayed back and forth over the rocks.

At Boca Paila we tumbled happily out of the car to walk on a beach that appeared to extend in either direction, forever. Here the wind could reach us and cool our heated, dust covered, brows. Here, also, was the Boca Paila Lodge, which has been one of the only habitations inside the reserve.

The owner, Rodrigo Gonzalez, greeted us. His family has run the flyfishing lodge for 32 years, fishing for Bone, Permit, and Tarpin. Guests come from all over the world to stay for a week or longer where lodging, food and all the fish you can catch, form an all-inclusive package. Short excursions of half or whole days can also be arranged for people staying close by in the Punto Piedra.

The strip of land between the Caribbean and the lagoons shrunk to not much wider than the road at this point. We followed a pier to the right out into a vast expanse of freshwater lagoon.

“In the center,” pointed out a fisherman on the pier. “There is a submerged Mayan temple. My ancestors put it there to hide it from the Spanish.”

Interesting, I thought, doubting his reasoning, but not what lay behind it. When the Spanish came to the Yucatan in the16th Century, they did all in their power to wipe out the Mayan religion and culture. What survived of the Maya had done so because it was hidden.

Two kms. further, we came to a bridge where the river meets the sea and the thin peninsula is broken.

“From her,” said our guide. “You can take a boat up the river. It is far -- 45 minutes. You come to a place where the lagoons feed the river that runs to the sea. The current is strong and the river has cut a path through the mangrove forest forming a ‘U’ shape. You can leave the boat and float-swim down with the current and back to this place where we stand. It is good. You will be carried by the current through the mangrove where the water is clear and sweet and you will see all of the life; the orchids and many beautiful flowers, So many birds and fish.”

“Aren’t there crocodiles?” one of our party asked.

“I think so, but no one sees them. They are not a problem.”

I remembered a story a friend from Australia told me about crocodiles being very active in the water but their movements were so fluid that they never disturb the surface of the water, which is what makes them so hard to detect. I shivered at the thought.

So far, we’d seen a very lot of water, fresh and salt, and a few birds. My desire to see some of the animals reputed to live here was still very much alive. But it was time to leave. My new friends and I joked about the long hard road we had to return on, and the relief it was that we were enjoying getting to know each other and would have another couple of hours to do that.

Half an hour later, suddenly, in the middle of the bright white road in front of us, a large red fox with a sweeping tail, sauntered slowly across and disappeared into the thick green tangle of mangrove.

We all gasped.

Our guide said, “When an animal allows you to see it, it is a gift from the spirit. A fox is a very special gift! Because fox medicine is the power of being unseen. He can vanish into the undergrowth. To meld into surroundings gives one the ability to observe the activities of others. Fox has the duty of keeping the family together and safe. He is also a talisman for those traveling far afield.”

The next morning the wind was up-- a common occurance-- so I decided to go inland to the ruins at Coba.

The 45 minute drive passed through several small Mayan villages; traditional homes of wood and grass roofs, surrounded by gardens and low rock walls where the women wear hoichel -- a white cotton dress with brightly colored embroidery around the neck and hem. Most people living in the villages of this area maintain the ancient way of life. They plant their corn with ceremony, conduct their families traditionally, and appoint a calendar-keeper, a daykeeper, to track the auspicious days and direct their daily lives.

At each village are topes -- speedbumps -- made across the road to force traffic to come to a stop to avoid ruining the undercarriage of the vehicle. As I slowed down I could see people passing between their homes and the dense jungle around them, which I wouldn’t have seen if I hadn’t been forced to slow down. The contrast between my speeding along the road seeing nothing but jungle, and the slow gentle life observable when I stopped, reminded me of the fox’s message the day before.

The road was arrow straight with jungle packed tight close to the edge. Masses of large blue-black butterflies, called Morphidae, meandered idly between, ocassionally meeting their death on my windshield. A truly sad sight, but there were so many that there was no way to avoid them.
 

The village of Coba is situated beside one of the few lakes in the Yucatan. Most inland water runs underground and breaks through the limestone cover every few kilometers in what are called, cenotes, or sinkholes: gorgeous blue-green pools of crystal water. They are the primary source of drinking water, and also, the mythological entrances to the underworld. The underworld is a place of great fascination to the ancient Maya where most of the heroic action of both the gods and man occurs.

I passed several cenotes on the road to Coba, as indicated by funky wood signs in bright colored lettering. One called carwash was particularly appealing. I’d been told that they’re wonderful places for a swim in the heat of the day, and now, I guessed, also good for cleaning things. Visions of VW bugs and pickup trucks congregated around the lip of the circular precipice above a hundred foot drop to the water below, made me laugh out loud. Something I often do to amuse myself when traveling on long monotonous roads alone.

The road turned to dirt near the village and ran beside the lake to the entrance of the ruins. Coba means, Water Stirred by the Wind. Tall green reeds swayed soothingly in the breeze under the hot mid-day sun, sheltering toucans, herons, egrets, and frogs, and probably crocodile!

Just beyond the lake, rising like an apparition above the masses of towering green trees, was the grey stone top of a stepped pyramid! Unlike Chicken-Itza, Tikal, and other Mayan ruins, Coba has only been partially excavated. Most of the dwellings are still covered with trees and vines. This is it’s great charm.

A small wooden structure with a grass roof was set at the entrance gate -- merely an opening in the wire fence -- to serve as the ticket office. Several men in white shirts congregated offering their services as guides. This time, I declined. Beyond them a dirt road ran straight into the dark trees. Drawn forward into the secrecy and stillness, I wanted to experience it alone. Later I’d ask questions.

Once inside, I found myself really alone. A dense silence of such intensity enveloped me, that I felt that the hundreds of thousands of people who’d once lived here were still speaking but in a language foreign to the living. The trees seemed to pant in the heat. Plaintive bird calls drew me further in.