16.
YUCATAN . . . 1939
BY LOULIE A. MATHEWS
THE chimes of New Orleans were ringing in the New Year as we boarded a steamer bound for Cuba. The Mississippi river runs from New Orleans to the Delta, a distance of a hundred miles, before it empties into the sea. Old plantations line its banks. Little life is stirring there today, but before the Civil War, these cotton fields formed part of Louisiana’s wealth and teemed with life. Spirituals born of pain and gladness and faith in God were sung—songs that will pierce the hearts of men for generations to come.
In Cuba we were obliged to transship, as Yucatan lies outside frequented steamship lines and only one boat a month touches there. The coast of Yucatan is inhospitable in the extreme; sandbars stretch far out to sea forcing steamers to anchor several miles off shore, while passengers must be brought in by means of small boats. Was it force of circumstances, adventure or destiny that brought an ancient people to choose this land as the center of their religious and intellectual life that existed for more than a thousand years? The ruins, vast in extent as well as beauty, have brought forth sighs of admiration from the whole world, yet they are hidden away like jewels in a mine.
The land like the sea is flat. Rivers run under ground and give no sign of their existence save for a luxurious vegetation. Even while we sat on the wharf waiting for officials, the values of yesterday slipped away; waiting in the sunshine appeared a normal occupation and the hours elongated so there was time left over. Every place has its tempo, staccato or slow, measured or quick, and thus you learn to keep step with each and to be in tune with all.
Some time in the afternoon we drove into Merida, the only city of any considerable size in Yucatan. One can see how charmingly planned the city had been, with three rows of trees on each side of wide streets, and planting of flowers and shrubs along the center. Once it must have been an oasis of fragrant beauty in a parched land. Now its grandeur is bowed in the dust.
Stately mansions copied from the French villas of the eighteenth century are loud in lamentation. Streaks of paint blacken the walls, oval windows are without panes, while lawns are littered with stucco roses and cupids that have fallen from ornate cornices. Whole blocks are boarded up. Once on a time fountains ran proud and free everywhere; now all are silenced. What has brought about such a disastrous change? The answer lies in a shift of ownership that has bankrupted the rich merchants, for Yucatan is the native habitat of a special type of cactus from which rope is made. The control of this vastly important industry has become the property of the Mexican government and the income derived from the plantations goes to Mexico. With the decline of private wealth, the clerical party has fallen on evil days, and the churches like the manor houses are closed. One priest for a given number of miles is strictly enforced.
Our first visit was to interview Sr. Rube M. Romero, editor and owner of the only liberal newspaper in Yucatan. For his daring he has been stoned and more than once had his equipment set on fire. He was most receptive to Bahá’í ideals and listened to the Message with deep attention. He speaks no English and asked for the books in Spanish which he said he would gladly review in his paper. He accepted and published in the Yucatan an article on The Bahá’í Religion, placing it on the front page of his paper.
Next we visited the Chamber of Commerce
where Sr. N. Sarlet, the chairman
granted us an interview. He received us
with courtesy but was noncommital; his
preoccupied manner was to become familiar
to us while talking with prominent men of
the city, an attitude of listening with
[Page 889]
apparent fear of
hearing what might be said,
a state of fear where no one dared make a
decision, a great unwillingness to speak lest
words be used against you.
Chichen Itza was our ultimate destination, a four-hour ride from the city of Merida. The roads were incredibly bad: momentarily it seemed as though the wheels would fly off and the whole motor shake to pieces. The chauffeur seemed pained by our apprehension; he assured us that this was considered a fine road and expressed surprise that we could not enjoy it with serenity. Finally, we drew up before the only inn at Chichen Itza, consisting of a main building surrounded by small adobe houses, each round and thatched. These are the rooms for guests. Vistas of the Mayan city could be seen through the trees. The work of restoration has been going on for almost a hundred years, and immediately after the war the Carnegie Institute sent a commission to complete the work. Though there are innumerable mounds yet untouched, a group of buildings that must have formed the central pivot of the city, stands complete and perfect. The architecture is surprising, combining many forms which they could not have possibly seen-the field of games might have been built today, while the ceremonial altars are formed like a pyramid, the top gained by hundreds of steps etched into each of its four sides, the plumed serpents having been carved to extend the entire length and form a balustrade as well as a symbolic ornament.
The Temple of the Warriors, so named by the Carnegie commission, has six columns of figures, elaborately dressed in robes of state, very suggestive of a Greek Temple, while the tower for astronomical observations is round and might have been a mosque. As the Spanish Fathers burned all Mayan records, little is known of the belief or even the customs of the people. No Rosetta stone has yet been found to decipher the hieroglyphics written on the stones. Perhaps it is this fact that acts upon the imagination and gives one a special zest to piece together the fragments that have been gleaned since the Spanish invasion.
There is a moment of supreme glory in every clime—the coming of the day—but none, I believe, can surpass the sunrise of Yucatan. Its most dramatic feature is caused by the heavy dew that rains down each night obscuring forest and glen and covering the ground until it looks as though a white sheet had been laid over it. The first shaft of morning light penetrates the thatch with long fingers of light that swing around the crevices between the walls of adobe and the roof turning the thatch into bright gold; showers of diamonds shake from the trees, while scarfs of mist float upward to be shot through with iridescent colors from the sun. Sometimes whole sheets of dew lift from the grass and float off like a magic carpet that disappears by the wand of the great magician. Jungle birds, wild with the joy of the coming day, try to reach the sun with their top notes and as the curtains of mist part, one building after another rises to greet the dawn as they did thousands of years ago.
Even to this day, the proud descendants of the Mayans will not speak Spanish unless forced to, but they are glad to pick up English words and are friendly with strangers. The rainy season had just come to an end when we arrived and an army of workmen were repairing adobe walls that melt away each year from the excessive rain; even the heavy thatch must be changed every other year. Mayans will not work under an overseer. A man we would speak of as foreman, is referred to as the oldest friend of the Chichen Itza Inn, and it was this important person who extended to us his hospitality and invited us to a supper given to celebrate Twelfth Night. We gladly accepted his invitation. His home, like that of his ancestors before him, was in the jungle. Each house is hidden securely by miles of vegetation. It is only when the moon is overhead that it is safe to enter the jungle by night. The roads are rough and winding and often obscured by mist which gives the privacy so dear to the heart of the Mayan people.
Twelfth Night fell at the full of the
moon and the night turned clear and bright.
Though dew was falling from myriad of
leaves, we could see bits of sky above and a
brightness cast by the moon. A member of
the family was sent to conduct us and from
[Page 890]
him we learned
why there were no locks on
the doors at Chichen Itza. He replied in
answer to our question that his people had
never learned to steal, “We do not want
what belongs to others because we can use
only that which willingly comes to us.” I
asked if there were any Mayan beliefs mixed
with the Catholicism which they
had practiced since the Spanish conquest.
“We still
remember,” he replied, “some of the holy
sayings of our ancestors and we keep them
alive from one generation to another.”
At length the flares came into view. Mayan houses consist of two rooms separated by a walled patio. Both poor and rich sleep in hammocks that are taken down during the day and the space used for other purposes. The poor make their hammocks of hemp and the well-to-do of raw silk with long knotted fringe that can be wrapped around for warmth. One hammock lasts a lifetime and reduces the cumbersome apparel of night to its simplest equation. Fragrant boughs are fastened over the entrance so that bad spirits cannot enter and the hard mud floors are swept and garnished with wild flowers.
As we drove up, the tortilla, the staple food of the country, was being cooked. We were ushered into the room reserved for ceremonials. Three boards had been placed across one side in order to form an altar. High up were streamers of tissue paper representing the Three Wise Kings of the East on their visit to Bethlehem. The middle shelf was covered by crude china dogs, guardians of the Mayan Law, reminding one of the symbol of China. The lowest altar was a concession to the faith of the Spanish fathers, with the Madonna of Guadeloupe sewn on lace and surrounded by homemade candles and wayside roses. Before these mixed symbols we sat down, one Englishman, two Spaniards and myself. For a long time nothing was said. At length, the Spaniard nearest me said in a whisper, “What can one believe? How much is true, how much false among the myths, the superstitions and the twice-told tales? Yet deep in the heart lies a persistent belief that we are here for some high purpose, some great design of an Almighty Being.”
In the patio, noisy preparations were going forward, so we drew closer together that I might answer the question. The appearance of Bahá’u’lláh in this day is the new chapter of evolution for mankind. An era begins with the appearance of a dynamic personality who founds a new civilization. History attests this fact. The advent of the Prophet becomes the pivotal point of the spiritual seasons. His coming is the springtime, His teaching the summer, and when the divine precepts penetrate the heart, the harvest appears. Finally comes the winter season, when religion is handed down and accepted without question and without ecstasy. Now mental concepts and discussion take the place of love. Limited minds construct dogmas; forms and ceremonials become overweeningly important. Belief, no longer spontaneous, becomes rigid. The cold winds of dispute blow over the land and the truth seeker knows not where to turn for guidance. In this dark hour comes the Illumined One, He brings again the creative force that man has lost; knowledge of Him renews life and a new energy is apparent in all things. As the spiritual light creates a higher vibration, old barriers crumble, governments fall, idols are overthrown. In Bahá’u’lláh’s own words: “The world’s equilibrium hath been upset through the vibrating influence of this most great, this new World Order. Mankind’s ordered life hath been revolutionized through the agency of this unique, this wondrous System—the like of which mortal eyes have never witnessed.” (From The Gleanings, page 136.)
Each religion that has preceded this dispensation, has believed that the Prophet sent to his people was The True One and all others were false. Bahá’u’lláh’s teaching reverses these limitations—all have been sent down at stated intervals and all have renewed religion. All have restated the fundamental verity of the fatherhood of God and the brotherhood of man. All have advanced the body politic and have been an honor to mankind. But the outer laws are changed in accordance with the exigencies of each age. Bahá’u’lláh, speaking of his own message, says: "I have no will but Thy will, O my Lord, and cherish no desire except Thy desire. From my pen floweth only summons
Attendants and friends at the Bahá’í Summer School of Australia held at Yerrinbool, N.S.W. Australia, in January, 1939.
which thine exalted pen hath voiced and my tongue uttereth naught save what the Most Great Spirit hath itself proclaimed in the kingdom of Thine eternity.” (From Prayers and Meditation, page 108.)
The choice lies with us—the will is free. If we wish, we can investigate truth for ourselves, we can learn the characteristics of a Messenger of God and apply our knowledge. Pausing, I suggested that we should repeat the Greatest Name that this knowledge may come to us. At the mention of this greatest of vibrations, the walls before us seemed to dissolve, the heart of the jungle lay bare. With the inner eye, I beheld an ancient people coming from all directions, crowding near to hear the great Name of God. Even as the three Kings journeyed from the East to greet the Lord of that day, so we were journeying to the Mayan people to greet the Lord of this day. Old and new —present and past—flowed together in that moment of eternity. One instant of reality shot from heaven to earth. When we returned to the objective world, tears stood in the eyes of my new found friends. In halting phrases, each expressed his reactions. One said that faith had been born again; another, that he had known in his heart the new message but did not know where to find it; the third felt that the heritage of the ages was consummated in this day and that the world of the spirit had for a moment become a reality.
When we were called to join in the Mayan supper and celebrate the holiday, Twelfth Night, our hearts were light and joyous and bound by a new allegiance.
