Walking the Americas

‘'Mayan sacrifice bowl,' he said in a crackled voice through the intercom radio. He then beckoned me to follow him. Kicking our fins, we swam through the crystal water ever deeper into the depths, following the course of the sandbank. Then I saw a huge horn poking out of the sand. On closer inspection, it seemed to be attached to a skull: it looked like a cow or a buffalo. ‘Sacrifice,' came the crackly answer from our guide. Further still and we came to something even more remarkable - and disturbing. There, on a rocky ledge, was another skull. But this time there were no horns. It was clearly that of a human being. Nearby, scattered around the bottom were the rest of the remains - thigh bones, ribs, spinal vertebrae, a pelvis.''

‘''The really poor people,' Alberto explained, ‘get buried in a communal plot for two years. After that, the grave is dug up on the Day of the Dead and the bones are taken out.' He looked sinister in the half-light of the cemetery, a solitary streetlight flickered across the graves. ‘Then,' he carried on, ‘they are put in boxes, skulls and everything, and they're here.' He pointed to the inside wall, where I could see what looked like small pigeonholes less than a foot wide. Each of the dark crevices contained a rusty old metal box. We got closer. Some of the compartments had bars blocking entry to what lay within. Others were open. Many of them were filled with candles and offerings. The dead are venerated here in Mexico, and nowhere more so than by the descendants of the Mayans here in the Yucatan. I opened a creaky box and there inside, looking up, was the skull of a man, on a pile of bones. I closed it quickly. ‘Let's leave,' I said to Alberto, ‘We've seen enough death for one day.'

Many thanks to Hodder & Stoughton and Edelweiss for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.