Mexico · My Thoughts · Travel

Coba: National Poetry Month Ends!

National Poetry Month meme

National Poetry Month ends today, and I have thoroughly enjoyed sharing my poetry and Mary Oliver’s with you. I ended this month of celebration with one of my favorite poems, inspired by a visit to Coba in the Yucatan peninsula in 1985.

My first husband and I started visiting Mazatlán and then the Yucatan peninsula in the early 70s and fell in love with the Cancun, of that era. A church friend educated us on how to travel to Mexico at the time: don’t drink the water, the need to get money exchanged before going, etc. At that time, my basic Spanish consisted of, ¿Dónde está el baño?, but I loved trying to communicate with the locals.

We returned a couple times before we divorced, but we didn’t visit any Mayan ruins. After our divorce, my friend, who advised us, and I traveled to Mexico several times and then on to Guatemala because of our fascination with the Mayan ruins.

During this time, I also finished my minor in Spanish. I spent the spring semester of 1986 in Mazatlán, living with a family. One of my favorite Spanish instructors went with us, twelve students in all. So, I enjoyed talking to the Mexicans and experiencing the Mexican culture first hand and my Spanish improved immensely.

Since I first stepped foot on a Mayan ruin, I felt the presence, the rhythm of their history, echo through me. For some reason, I had a deep connection with those enchanting walls and structures from so long ago.

But this experience in Coba I will never forget. We found Coba accidentally, and also a lovely respite in the jungle where we stayed—a Club Med, but not the swinging single Club Med so many know from this time frame. This one was a research Club Med hidden away in the jungle.

I percolated this experience in my head for about a year, and easily I added magical realism to illustrate what I felt when I came upon Coba for the first time.

“Magical realism is a genre of literature that depicts the real world as having an undercurrent of magic or fantasy.”

                                                                                                                Larada Horner

                                                                                                                March, 1986

Coba—I Was there!!

The year was 1985.

                        Walking down the jungle path with my friend,

Iguana - Coba

                        an iguana crosses my trail—

                        toucan birds squeak above my head.

            Heat from the jungle presses down upon us—

                        Green everywhere!

            A turn in the road, thick over-growth blocks the sun

                        for a minute.

I see another iguana sunning on the dilapidated wall of the ruin,

peaceful and not going to do us any harm!

            Shadows, sounds, smells—

                        transforms me back to 900 A.D.

A shiver pierces my soul—quietly Mayans step out

                            of the past,

                                        brush my arm and surround me.

I stare at the crumbled ruins,

                            straining to see with my eyes their faces and

hear with my ears their voices.

But the silence continues,

            Except for

the bees buzzing in the tops of the


Where am I? When? With whom?

                        A step back in time, yet caught between!

Had I been here before?

                            Centuries before,

                                    standing at the foot of this

                                                temple, surrounded by my fellow Mayans,                                           

worshipping the god “Chac” and                                                       

                                                listening to the familiar

                                                    squeak of birds

                                                            and worshipping?

The smell of incense fills the air—the mingled

                            odor of honey and grain—my sacrifice to my god.

The drum beats—beats, beats a familiar steady cadence.

                            Calls me to it

                                    And breaks the eerie silence.

The priests chat—chat, chat soft sounds that join the                                             

rumbling beat of the drum.

            That beat echoes through my heart beat,

                        The heartbeat of everyone present

                        The heartbeat of the world.

I sway to the beat, the chat—

it vibrates in my soul, calling me,

calling me home!

Dark bronze skin, brown eyes, flat heads—

Quetzal bird - Coba

Feathery, vibrant green quetzal headdresses don heads.

Colorful gowns sway to the beat and the chant.          

Small sturdy people crowd around me,

greeting me with a soft rhythmic tongue,

            and my heart understands this strange language.

                                                Gently, friendly—a spark shines in

                                                             their eyes.

THEY KNOW ME! I’m among my own. I’m home!!!

“Did you hear that? What was that?” my friend grabs my arm.

TRANSPORTED—GONE—REALITY, or is it? I’m back—it’s 1985.

The summer’s heat presses in,

the sun’s scorching heat—

eerie sounds and hums flow

through the air.

                            Eerie, yet familiar.

For a second,

            I felt transported back,

                        Then? Where?

I strain to hear it better—

to hear the beat of the past—

to see those familiar soft brown eyes.

I want to return!

Can I?


For weeks, this poem seeped out of my pores, and I felt it was real. Was it real? Was it magic? I don’t know, but today, thirty-eight years later, as I read it, I felt transported back to the magic of Coba and my dramatic experience.

Have you ever had an experience like this? Have you seen any of the Mayan ruins? Anasazi ruins? Any Indian ruins? Do you connect with history in any way? Let me know.

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My Thoughts · poetry · Travel

Haunted by a Favorite Poem of Mine

Larada at the top of Uxmal, 1991 - Haunted by Coba
Larada at the top of Uxmal, 1991

Thirty-five years ago, I wrote a poem after my memorable adventure in Cobá, Mexico, in the summer of 1985. Laying solemnly unattended in a folder on my computer, it has haunted me over the years. Today, I recalled my surreal experience when I wrote the poem, remembering the physical parts of the Cobá experience, and then the magic I added.

 In 1986, also, I was finishing up my coursework at Colorado State University. We studied magical realism in my Spanish classes, looking at the works of Jorge Luis Borges and Gabriel García Márquez. This genre fascinated me—reality with a dash of magic.

 So, what is magical realism: 

 Magical realism is a genre of literature that depicts the real world as having an undercurrent of magic or fantasy. Magical realism is a part of the realism genre of fiction.

Within a work of magical realism, the world is still grounded in the real world, but fantastical elements are considered normal in this world. Like fairy tales, magical realism novels and short stories blur the line between fantasy and reality.

For several years, the Mayan culture and the Yucatán peninsula captured my attention, so I visited many Mayan Indian ruins there: Chichen Itza, Uxmal, Tulum, and Cobá. During tours at each ruin, I took copious notes. I bought several books and read about the Mayans, their culture and beliefs and absorbed details.

During our 1985 trip to Cobá, much of it lay overgrown with heavy jungle vegetation. Lynn Hafer, my travel companion and I stayed at a Club Med hotel nearby, but it wasn’t a “Swinging Singles’” Club Med infamous at the time but a research facility with a full library and a quiet, somber setting. Because of its remote location, the Mexican government had not commercialized Cobá yet, so what a raw jungle experience we had!

In 1991 I continued my Mayan treks. To celebrate my completion of my master’s degree, Lynn and I went to Guatemala to one of the largest Mayan Indian ruins, Tikal, a dream come true for this Mayan ruin lover. However, my experience, noted in this poem at Cobá, regularly surfaced and haunted me, so I thought I’d share it with you. In looking at it today, I felt the call to revise!        


Cobá—I Was there!!

Written – March, 1986

Revised – July 25, 2021

The year was 1985.

Walking down an overgrown jungle path with my friend,
	toucan birds squeak above my head
                nestled in the canopy.
A turn in the road, thick over-growth blocks the sun 
        for a minute.
		Shadows, sounds, smells--
			transported me back to 900 A.D.
A shiver pierces my soul.
I stare at crumbled ruins
        while an iguana lazily poses on a low step,
	       large but approachable.
Colorful in dress, Mayans step out 
        of the past and the bushes,
	       brush my arm.

I strain to see their faces 
               to hear their voices.
Is it real?

The bees buzz in the tops of the
        Trees among the orchids that
	       Decorate the canopy
		        With their color.
The bees’ hum above
	Joins the voices below.

Where am I?  
       With whom?
               A step back in time, yet caught between
                        Two worlds—then and now!

Had I been here before?
       At this spot,
       Centuries before,
              Standing at the foot of this Temple, 
                        surrounded by my fellow Mayans, 	    	    	        
              Worshipping the god "Chac" and 	   	    	    	    	
              Listening to the familiar
	    	    	Squeak of birds
                               and the laughter of howling monkeys.
The smell of Copal, sweet incense, fills the air
      The mingled 
             Odor of honey and grain,
                       My sacrifice to my god.
A bright fire illumines the scene
      With reflections and smoke.

The drums beat—beat—beat a familiar steady cadence.
      Draw me to them.
The Mayan priests chant—chant—chant soft sounds that join the 	    	    		
      Bass beat of the drums.   
The Mayan language a mystery to me,
      Yet I know it’s deep meaning.
I sway to the beat—the chant.
      It vibrates in my soul calling me forth
              Through the ages,
                      Past time’s illusive barrier!

Dark bronze skins glisten in the firelight.
      Brown eyes search our faces for safety.
             Flat heads surprise me with their symmetry.
I marvel at the feathery headdresses with multiple colorful gowns.	  
      I join the celebration,
             The ceremony!  

Small sturdy people crowd around me, 
      Greet me in a soft rhythmic tongue.
            Gently, friendly—a spark shines in
                     Their eyes with recognition!

THEY KNOW ME!  I'm among my own.  I'm home!!!

But it can’t be!
      I grew up in Colorado
            Not Mexico
	    Not centuries ago
	    Not Mayan

"Did you hear that?  What was that?" my friend grabs
      My arm.

            TO REALITY, or is it?  
I'm back—1985.
The summer's heat presses in,
     The sun's scorching heat
           Eerie sounds and hums flow 
                   Through the air.
Eerie, yet familiar.

I strain to hear it better
     To hear the beat of the past
          To see those familiar brown eyes.
I want to return!
     But can I?

Déjà vu? A poem capturing my experience or a fictional treatment? I can’t explain what happened that day so many years ago, but I know it was surreal. My poetry helped me express what I felt, not exactly what I saw. When I wrote the poem, the total experience happened. For years, this poem haunted me with its expression of possibility. I believe there’s unexplainable mystery in this world. Maybe that’s why I am attracted to the genre of magical realism and the chance that I witnessed a Mayan ceremony so many centuries ago.

A mystery happened this afternoon. I planned to use pictures from that 1985 trip to Cobá, but I couldn’t find my photo album. I found pictures from our second trip to Cobá 1986. Historically, I take lots of pictures on any trip—what happened to that album? Another puzzle added here—I wonder?

Have you ever had an unexplainable experience like mine? What happened? How did you honor it and record it? (Scroll below to make a comment)

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