Much like Placencia, San Ignacio is a town that’s mostly a springboard for other adventures. But it is perhaps one of the most charming springboards I’ve ever encountered. Iguanas, chocolate, and  well-preserved ruins await within the town limits, as well as a beautiful, languid river. But many people spend their time venturing outwards, to the mountains, to the jungle, or to neighboring Guatemala. And some intrepid/crazy folks (like yours truly) go underground. Way underground. 

There’s something deeply spiritual about caverns. Their depth, their silence, their towering formations and intricate crystals and brigades of blind, crawling, flying creatures. But the Actun Tunichil Muknal cave has the added bonus of being a literal holy site; for centuries, it was a place of prayer and worship, and eventually, of desperation. Roughly 1500 years ago, the entrance to the cave system was discovered by local Mayans. Over the next couple of centuries, they delved deeper and deeper into its tunnels, wading through the underground river, climbing up its jagged stone formations, contributing their own art and religious artifacts. Because of the cave’s incredible depth and intricacy, it was believed to be the entrance to Xiabalba, the underworld, home of the gods. As I would learn on my tour, the Mayans’ relationship to the area was one that, like so many religious spaces, evolved significantly over time.

But first, a brief moment to nerd out a bit about the spelunking part. The trek started with a short walk through the jungle, where a rope hung over a calm, cool river. We immediately waded in and started scooting along, already invigorated. We got out, hiked more, waded more, hiked even more, and arrived at the mouth of the cave. We then swam our way into semi-darkness, and proceeded to trek through increasingly intricate chambers, sometimes edging along the rock shelves, sometimes walking through the same slow, steady underground river that had led the Mayans here in the first place. The tour company’s website had compared the experience to something out of Indiana Jones, and as we rounded a bend and shimmied across slippery rocks before splashing down again, I felt inclined to agree. In less academic terms: It was freakin’ rad. 

The caving, in and of itself, would have been a delight. But there was something particularly thrilling about climbing up a massive, crevice-riddled rock and emerging into halls of worship. For the most part, the priests incorporated the cave’s natural features into their spirituality; we were told to avoid stepping in the pits of sand around us, as they had been used for rituals. But there were also some modifications, such as the carvings that turned stalagmites into miniature sculptures of gods and animals. The guide used his flashlight in place of the traditional smoke and fires to demonstrate how shadows on the wall could be used to stage retellings of their many mythologies. There were also enough artifacts to make the place a museum in its own right; pots and fragments of ceramics and, most poignantly, human remains.

Unfortunately, the Mayan world encountered the same thing so many of us are struggling with now: a massive drought. Research suggests that it began around the 8th or 9th century A.D., and many believe that it was a major contributing factor in the Mayan Empire’s decline and collapse. As the years went on, more and more people were sacrificed in the caves, an attempt to appeal directly to the gods for more rain. Many of these remains, perfectly preserved by the cool, dry, enclosed air, can still be seen by visitors, and as we wove through the sites where they had been excavated, the scale of the priests’ efforts took shape. The guide emphasized that, contrary to popular belief, the deceased were not prisoners of war or helpless victims, but rather male citizens. It was considered a great honor to be chosen for the role. Most of the skeletons were grown men, but there were teenagers and young boys as well, and even a few infants. It was stirring, seeing these skulls progressing in size, all bearing those telltale marks of blunt cranial trauma – one fatal, ceremonial blow. They highlighted the increased societal anxiety, those frantic, visceral appeals to higher powers in the face of elemental catastrophe. Sacrificing objects and people to appease a faltering climate; it all felt a little too prescient. 

This was also another place that illustrated the dual benefits and disadvantages of tourism. While the presence of visitors has certainly helped with preservation efforts, it’s not without its complications. The reason I don’t have any pictures from the trip is because cameras were banned after a few too many… incidents. As in, “I leaned over to get a better picture and accidentally dropped my camera on an ancient skull and knocked one of its teeth out” sorts of incidents. Even as we stood in these amazing, beautiful chambers, we were besieged by the echoes of half a dozen other tour groups, all trying to have a meaningful experience in synchronized harmony. 

Nevertheless, it was amazing to see such sacred spaces up close. In the U.S., at least, caves tend to be sites of commerce and/or conquest.  Here, adrenaline aside, the focus was clearly on the cultural elements. And this was perhaps clearest in the final chamber, when we came face to face with the Crystal Maiden. The name comes from a bit of a mixup; when the skeleton was first discovered, analysts deemed it to be a young woman based on the pelvic structure. However, recent research proved that the skeleton was, in fact, a young man’s. Nevertheless, the first part of the name remains accurate; not only is the skeleton more or less fully intact, but it also sparkles in an otherworldly fashion, the result of centuries of geology and calcification at work. We all sat squashed together in the small chamber, gazing at this form that had been so utterly a product of its time, yet had aged and changed to meet us in ours. The bones glistened and winked in the thin light, proof positive of how deeply place and people were linked. Then it was back past the gravesites and pottery pieces, back down the rock face, and back through the water. This time, we took the “adventure” route, which included turning our lights to their lowest setting and scooting, swimming, and slinking through waterways that almost touched the ceiling. On the way back, the guide shined his flashlight on several small plants jutting out of the ground. These, he explained, were entirely tourism-based; with no sunlight available, they lived entirely off of the constant succession of flashlight beams. When covid closed down the caves, the plants died, only reviving once visitors returned. Once again, a cycle: the cave influences, and is influenced.

I returned from the trek to find my good friend Hallie, already unpacking in our room. She would be joining me for the next leg of the journey. The following morning, we headed out to Cahal Pech, a nearby archaeological site. It was just up the hill from the hostel, and wonderfully preserved. We roamed around grassy ball courts, climbed millennia-old stairs, and brushed our fingers across stones interwoven with moss.

It was beautiful and awe-inspiring, and a perfect precursor for what was to come.