By George Brown
Ordinarily, I’m not one to be caught up in such things, but for some reason this time I was; so much so in fact that I decided to take a trip to the Mayan ruins at Chichen Itza to experience the culture for myself, and, hopefully, gain a better understanding about this ominous prediction. And so I share with you here the events that occurred on that historic trip.
We made our way to the Yucatan Peninsula by way of a cruise ship out of New Orleans, eventually arriving at Chichen Itza on February 15, 2012. Our guide, Julian, was a direct descendant of the Mayan people, and his hour long tour was fascinating, especially his description of the temple pyramid and the sad truth that human sacrifices had once been held there to appease the Mayan gods.
After completing the tour, Julian said we were free to spend a second hour exploring the remainder of the ruins on our own. In his talk Julian had described a sacred pool that springs up from an underground river, which for centuries had served as the primary source of water for the Mayan people in that area. He warned that because the pool was located at the end of a difficult trail only the hardiest hikers could expect to reach it and still have time to return to the bus before departure.
Naturally, I struck out for the pool, and I soon understood the reason for Julian’s warning. The ever creeping jungle had nearly engulfed the trail, but I pressed on until I reached a clearing where rays of sunlight streamed through the canopy and glistened upon the surface of the sacred pool. The water was crystal clear but I thought it best to not drink it. Instead I slipped my backpack off and pulled out a bottle of water. I removed the cap and was about to take a drink when I heard a rustling sound coming from the shadows near the edge of the pool. I paused and watched as a gnarled, stooped shouldered old man suddenly appeared at the edge of the pool some 20 feet ahead. He couldn’t have stood more than five feet tall, and his face was bronze and weathered from the sun. He was barefoot and wore only an old t-shirt and ragged khaki shorts. Without noticing me he slipped a small leather knapsack from his shoulder and pulled out half of a coconut shell. I watched intently as he slowly stooped and scooped the shell full of water and began to drink.
It was at this moment that he looked up and spotted me taking a drink from my bottle of water. I lifted the bottle in a gesture of friendship, which he seemed to understand. Flashing an almost toothless smile, he returned the gesture with his coconut shell and then began walking toward me. As he drew near I noticed a stone attached to a thin leather strap hanging from his neck. It was thin, about three inches in diameter, and appeared to have a hieroglyphic image of the sun with a series of little dots in a straight line on each side of the sun. I guessed that the dots represented the alignment of the planets and might have something to do with the Mayan calendar and the supposed end of the age.
The old man’s eyes followed mine as I pointed to the stone. With a questioning look I asked, “End time?” I could tell that he didn’t understand my words but he seemed to intuitively understand that I was asking about the symbols on the stone. Without speaking he turned and looked toward the sunlight shining through the canopy, then slowly raised his arms toward the sunlight and began chanting in a rhythmic cadence. While doing so he waved his arms in large circles several times then clapped his hands with a loud bang and lowered his arms to his side. For a moment we stood in hushed silence. I realized he was trying to convey the mystery represented by the symbols on the stone, and I was sure that it had something to do with what was to happen ten months hence.
The little man could see from the puzzled look on my face that I didn’t understand his chanting and gestures. Without speaking he slowly slipped the leather strap from his neck, removed the stone and placed it in my hand. Then he pointed to my backpack sitting on the ground beside me. I gave him an inquisitive look. Was he offering to trade the stone for my backpack – a stone that might well hold the key to understanding the end-time mystery off the Mayan calendar? I reached down, picked up my backpack, and handed it to him. He gave me another toothless smile then turned and in an instant disappeared back into the shadows of the forest. I slipped the stone into my pocket and retraced my steps, half running to be sure I would reach the bus on time.
When I arrived Yvonne was already on the bus. Where. “Where have you been, and where is your backpack?”, she asked.
“Oh, I traded it for this,” I said, reaching into my pocket to retrieve the stone. But the stone wasn’t there. I jumped from my seat and checked all of my pockets, but it was gone. It had probably fallen from my pocket as I ran along the trail. Heart sick I sank into my seat and began to tell Yvonne about my encounter with the little Mayan man at the sacred pool, but she interrupted and said, “Oh good grief, not another one of your backpack stories.”
I could see there was no need to continue so I pulled my hat down over my eyes and went to sleep, feeling certain that all would be well for the world on December 21, 2012, and as we know It was.