Monte Albán, 1993

At every step from the parking lot at Monte Albán, vendors dangled skeins of beads or black velvet boards to which fluttering earrings were pinned like butterflies. I shook my head against their murmuring voices, walked briskly, made it to the ruins.

Although fewer on the site itself, and probably officially discouraged, vendors were still there. A thin, dark old man awaited me, several small, crudely carved clay objects in his hands, at the top of the first hill I climbed.

¿No quiere comprar un díos?  Didn’t I want to buy a god?

No, gracias, I said, as I’d been saying all morning, and stood taking in the panorama I’d come to see.

The bus from Oaxaca climbs a winding narrow road to the mountaintop and these Zapotec ruins. Enthralled with the view, I hadn’t even looked at the site yet. On that June morning, pale rain clouds veiled the green peaks of the Sierra Madres. The great valley was washed in hazy blue. A multitude of white blocks winked through dense trees, the chief evidence of the city below.

At last I lowered my eyes to the foot of the man-made hill on which I stood, to the three parallel rows of temples and wide stretches of green between them. I tried to imagine the action in the ceremonial ball court, remembering a description of breastplates, racquets and helmets, fasting and purification before playing. “Playing” is an odd verb for an event whose outcome was the sacrifice of a participant’s life. One climbed up here, a thousand years ago, to enact somber ritual. The daily business of life took place downslope, in homes of more fragile material, all trace of which was long gone. The records of ordinary people are perishable.

The old vendor stood near me still, squinted beneath his battered straw hat, a great web of wrinkles fanning out from his dark, deep-set eyes.  “There and there,” he pointed, “my grandfather grew corn.”

I saw it suddenly, pre-restoration, the crafted shapes of the eroded hills just discernible beneath thick vegetation, the farmer tending the rows of corn, indifferent to the ruins, which had been there all his life, all his father’s life, all his father’s life–ruins which had nothing to do with him or his grandson, except to provide a place to grow corn, or sell trinkets to tourists–the exchange of one lean livelihood for another. Was grandfather better off than grandson, before the government declared this a zona arqueológico and banished his maiz?  Were the rough clay figures the last attempt at earning a living before resort to plain begging?

I tried to provoke a comment on this from the old man. “¡Qué lástima! Was your grandfather paid for the land?  Given someplace else to plant?”

“That is Building J,” he nodded, playing tour guide. “It is full of tunnels and vaults.”

Maybe my Spanish was incomprehensible. I glanced at him, confused, but his eyes were on Building J. Maybe he didn’t want to discuss it. I tried to squeeze another question from the remnants of my classroom Spanish: pero, la tierra…

Two girls from Amsterdam reached the top and scanned their guidebook. The old man edged away from me, offered the girls his little gods. They weren’t buying either, wanted to see Tumba Siete, where the gold was found.

Nada a ver,” the old vendor dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. They took all the gold long ago, to museums in Mexico City.  But the Dutch explorers were not to be discouraged. At home in Holland, they’d show their slides: “And here is where those treasures were discovered.”

“My grandfather was Dutch,” I informed the girls from Amsterdam.  “His name was Siebe Keuning.”  They looked baffled, so I spelled the name and their faces brightened. “Oh, king,” they said, gently correcting my pronunciation. And with a swig of Evian from the plastic bottle in their backpack, they were off.

I was more interested in Building J than in Tomb Seven. From my vantage point it looked like an aberration in the otherwise precisely gridded pattern, the only structure set at an angle. They think Building J was an observatory, but aren’t positive. Everything is a reconstruction, a conjecture about the lives of people who lived there from about 500 B.C. to the Conquest–1630 or so. During my visit, a crew swarmed over a roped-off site, moving through the dirt inch by inch, seeking historical truth. So much attention to what is far behind us, so little, sometimes, to what is close.

I searched my childhood for a memory of Grandpa Keuning saying the name and couldn’t find one. I say it as my father did. I practiced the pronunciation the Dutch girls gave me all the way up the observatory, but by the time I reached the top, had forgotten it. I regretted, then, not having bought something from the old vendor. It might have given me something to remember by.

Published in an earlier version in International Quarterly, 1995

 

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7 Responses to Monte Albán, 1993

  1. Jana says:

    Looks like your memories are intact even without a clay god!! Nice experience, you’ll make many more memories on your trip next week. Can’t wait to read about them!

  2. winnie barrett says:

    a wonderful sight made special by this piece. thank you!

  3. Zara Snapp says:

    I like staying in touch through this. I love reading your work. Hugs from Mexico!

  4. Agustin Cadena says:

    Lovely! I have very nice memories from Monte Albán too. And no god to remember them 🙁

  5. Bob Jaeger says:

    A lovely, contemplative piece. I enjoy the way your personal history/ memory weaves with ancient history and the old man who reveals nothing, remains as mysterious as the ruins.

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