Day 52 – (200m underneath a mountain near) San Ignacio

The cave swallowed us whole about two hours ago. Swimming through the entrance, the water coming from deep within the mountain took my breath away. But in the humidity of the Belizean jungle, it was a welcome respite.

It rained heavily last night. The fury of the tropical storm lasted only twenty minutes, but it was intense. Three lightning strikes a stone-throw from the restaurant made us jump as we ate. Luckily, we didn't choose the soup. It turned the main street of San Ignacio to mush (the rain, not the soup).

That night before has turned the cave known as Actun Tunichil Muknal (the 'Cave of the Stone Sepulchre', or 'ATM cave' for short) into an underground river. We wade along the path; sometimes the water is ankle deep, sometimes it comes up to our chests. Other times we can't even feel the ground beneath our feet. Our splashes echo back at us from the inky blackness ahead and behind. There is no light our eyes can use to acclimatise. Without torches, we would surely never get back to daylight.

Martin is our guide. He assures me he has spare batteries. He's like a little Mayan Yoda, weaving a story to accompany our journey. He knows a lot about the Maya. They were religious people, says Martin. They worshiped elemental gods with a fervour that makes the Hillsong congregation look like part-time atheists.

The Maya believed that sacrifices of food and animals would secure them, in return, all they needed to flourish. They believed the gods would provide all they needed to build and maintain their giant cities; far bigger than any in Europe at that time.

We squeeze through another small crevice in the rock wall, and another chamber opens up ahead. Giant stalactite formations hang from above, reaching down to grasp their stalagmite brethren. In thousands of years, perhaps they will finally join hands.

We climb up another ledge, out of the water. Removing our shoes, we tiptoe carefully into a new chamber. Torchlight dances on the walls all around, throwing shapes. Sometimes, you catch a figure dancing in your periphery, or a large animal darting behind a rock. But it's all in your mind.

Martin says the Maya believed that the gods resided in the underworld. They came to this cave – the link between the two worlds – to worship. I imagine how the shadows on the walls would have looked to the Mayan priests, high on natural psychedelics. No wonder they believed the gods lived here.

They brought with them great pots, and prepared meals as offerings. Martin points out the wrecked pottery scattered all around, everywhere, unmoved since the day they were carried in here, a thousand years in the past.

My mind wanders again. I remember Rachel meeting Martin the night before, in a little bar called Orleanitos, just off the square in San Ignacio. We all talked for hours over Jambalaya and rum, listening to the Caribbean lilt of everyone's voices. It feels good to speak English again, Belize's legacy of a British colonial past. They were so friendly, like everyone in this tiny little town. A speck on the map before the border with Guatemala, but oh so inviting. Infectious.


Speaking with the locals and expats, they all say the same thing. San Ignacio is a place where everyone knows everyone. Where everyone takes care of everyone. A place where you go for a haircut, and end up playing football that afternoon with Floyd the barber. Where people you met the day before beep you and wave when they drive past on the street. Where even the drunks stop for a friendly chat. Surrounded by rainforest and fast-flowing rivers, it's a little oasis of Caribbean calm high in the mountains. I can imagine getting stuck here for a while.

Martin is speaking again. Martin tells us as the drought became more pronounced, the Maya became more desperate. The gods had forsaken them. They began to up the stakes. Human sacrifice. He points out a skull on the floor. It's forehead is flattened, done when the noble child was a baby. A hole in it's head shows the killing blow. Martin says there are fourteen such sacrifices in this cave. Seven of them are children.

Nobody knows where the lowland Maya went. They abandoned their cities, their places of worship. Some believe their society fell because of prolonged drought, others due to peasant revolution. Maybe, in seeking the favour of the gods, the full horror of what their society had become, what they had began to do, became apparent. Maybe many Maya simply rejected the deeds their spiritual leaders had begun committing in their name, and left for the hills and a more primitive life.

Now, Martin is telling the story of a young girl; maybe 14, maybe 20. I can't hear exactly. She was an important person, maybe the daughter of a rival city leader, captured during war. She would have been brought down into this cave, probably blindfolded or drugged, knowing her fate.

She would have been ritually killed. An axe to the base of the spine, then another to the head. Another desperate blood offering to the non-responsive Maya gods.

Then Martin shines his torch and there she lies. Her tiny skeleton is splayed out on the floor. Martin explains she was an offering to the rain god, Chaac. Her position is deliberate. As the cave filled with rainwater, her body lay in a shallow pool. She would have looked like she was dancing; a rain dance.

The years in the cave have covered her skeleton with a thin layer of limestone, keeping her safe from decay until the day she was found in 1986. The limestone shimmers in the light. Her entire skeleton looks like it is encrusted with tiny diamonds.

Nobody knows who she was, where she came from. Nobody will ever know her name, or the full horrors she experienced deep within this cave. However, as if for some small recompense, in death nature has gifted her with a beauty that has lasted through the ages. She is the Crystal Maiden, and this is her cave.

View all the St Ignacio photos here