Alma Reed: Beloved ‘Peregrina’

Forty-seven years ago today Alma Reed (1889-Nov. 20, 1966) wrote and delivered her last column for “The News.” In celebration of the Revolution, it was to be published the following day, November 20. Alma wrote of revolutionary ideals, it’s martyrs and heroes. She’d known many of these; one in particular traveled in her heart. Felipe Carrillo Puerto’s (1872-1924) photo was, as always, beside her typewriter as she wrote. Their story is one of the great love stories of Mexico — immortalized in the popular ballad “Peregrina.”

A native Californian journalist, Alma Reed, wrote a popular column in the “San Francisco Call.” Unabashedly progressive, Alma used that forum to fight against poverty, injustice and the death penalty. After her successful campaign in 1921 to save a 17-year-old Mexican national from death row, President Álvaro Obregón gratefully invited her to be Mexico’s honored guest. Though Alma spoke little Spanish she recognized her name and was thrilled in Aguascalientes when mariachi sang “Alma de mi Alma” outside her railcar, assuming it was for her they sang. When her Spanish improved she self-deprecatingly told the humiliating story to the delight of many new admirers. It’s part of La Peregrina’s legend.

Alma returned to the U.S. with one goal — an assignment in Mexico. In 1923, as a passionate amateur archeologist, she was offered a position with “The New York Times Sunday Supplement.” Felipe Carrillo Puerto, the new governor of Yucatán had opened a road to Chichén Itzá and the Carnegie Institute was sending an exploratory survey team. The assignment surpassed her wildest dreams.

As a colonel in Emiliano Zapata’s revolutionary army, Carrillo Puerto started his work on behalf of peasants and working poor in the central Mexican state of Morelos. Now, elected governor of Yucatán, he had power to implement the ideals of the Revolution, including an obligation to uplift indigenous people. It was his hope to restore Maya pride by opening magnificent Maya ruins to tourism, supplementing the hemp-dependent Yucatecan economy. Alma’s initial interview with Governor Felipe Carrillo was love at first sight. “We were non-dogmatic humanistic socialists with shared passion for the underdog, reform, justice, the Maya.” Despite the Governor’s married state they were also rapidly inseparable.

Famed, eccentric archeologist Edward Thompson had begun excavations in Yucatán in 1885. He owned a dilapidated hacienda used to house the survey team. Thompson liked young Alma and promised to provide her with a real “scoop” before she left. In fact it was a confession. For years Thompson had been “removing” immense treasure from Chichen Itza’s Sacred Cenote and sending it to his benefactors at the Peabody Museum in Boston. He put his “confession” in writing and the greatest story of Alma’s professional life was headlines.

Despite a near constant proximity, Alma tried to maintain distance from her soul-mate, the charismatic, handsome governor. She left Mexico knowing she loved and was loved but vowing never to return. Her triumphant return to New York with the Peabody story only increased her popularity in Mexico.

The New York Times sent her back. Newly divorced Felipe appeared and proposed. Alma joyously accepted agreeing to meet him in Mérida.

Aboard ship a storm arose; despite violent winds, at midnight she heard a lovely melody, opened her cabin-door and found a trio strapped to the railings as they inaugurated “Peregrina.” Yucatecans — esteemed poet Luis Rosado Vega and famed composer Ricardo Palmerín — had written the song at Felipe’s request. It achieved overnight popularity.

Wanderer of clear and divine eyes
and cheeks aflame like clouds at sunrise,
little woman of the red lips,
and hair radiant as the sun.
Traveler who left your own scenes,
the fir trees and the virginal snow,
and came to find refuge in the palm groves
under the sky of my land, my tropical land.
The singing birds of my fields,
offer their voices when they see you,
and the flowers with perfumed nectar
caress and kiss you on lips and temples.
When you leave my palm groves and my land,
traveler of enchanting looks,
don’t forget — don’t forget — my land,
don’t forget — don’t forget — my love.

Alma and Felipe enjoyed two months together before Alma’s October return to San Francisco to plan for their Jan. 14 wedding. They wrote every day until Alma received word of serious political problems in Mexico; all communication with Yucatán was abruptly severed. Felipe, three of his brothers and other comrades faced a firing squad Jan. 3, 1924. His last act was to give the soldier charged with killing him the wedding ring he held for his beloved Alma with instructions to be sure it was received.

Alma always loved Mexico and returned in the 50s to live and work here until her 1966 death — receiving the Order of the Aztec Eagle in 1961. She heard “Peregrina” thousands of times throughout her long life. There are stories of musicians interrupting whatever they were playing to launch into “Peregrina” whenever Alma entered a room.

Felipe is buried in Mérida at the Socialist Rotunda. Alma is buried across the path.“Peregrina” lives on. No matter where you are in Mexico, tomorrow is a grand day to request it.

The Origin of team sports

As the 2012 Olympic Games begin, it’s a grand time to visit the ball courts at Mexican archeological sites and see evidence of what was one of the earliest the team sports. The Mesoamerican ball game was being played in 1000 B.C., some say as far back as 1400 B.C. That’s well before the games started in Olympia in 776 B.C. 

It’s not unusual for cultures to have religious games.  The Greek Olympic games were held every four years to honor Zeus -- accompanied by a truce honored for the duration of the games by all city-states.  What probably started as a sprinting competition on the stadia in Olympia expanded to the pentathlon--jumping, discus, javelin, wrestling and a foot-race. Winners were admired, immortalized in poems and statues.  

In Mesoamerica's ball game there is evidence one of the players was sacrificed at the end of some games -- proof of the religious nature of the game.  Early Spanish conquerors prohibited playing the game; anything related to indigenous religion was, in their eyes, the cult of the devil.

Nonetheless, several teams were taken to Spain to show the king’s court this remarkable sport.  Players played very few exhibition matches before suffering a similar fate of almost all indigenous people taken to Europe at that time.  They succumbed to smallpox, measles, or other European diseases for which they had no immunity.

Those few games played had a tremendous impact on European sports.  Until then individualized sports reigned: only one person could win. Everyone else lost.  In traditional Olympic events the gold medalist is the winner.  Other competitors, though excellent athletes, are still losers.  It was the Mesoamerican ballgame that introduced the idea to Europe that all members of a team can be winners.  

Though no longer played and the rules of the Mesoamerican game long since forgotten, portrayals in ceramic art and sculpture consistently depict a solid rubber ball and seven players on a team.  Players were allowed to hit the ball with all parts of their bodies except hands and feet.  They wore protective leather padding over their head, shoulders, elbows, knees, around their waist and over their stomach.  The ball weighed 3.5 to 4 kilos (7 to 9 pounds). 

There is no standard sized court; what is standard is the shape.  Two parallel mounds give the ballcourt its characteristic capital letter "I" shape -- wide at the ends, narrow down the center.   Sloping sides lead to a seating area on the top of the parallel mounds.  With time it became fashionable to have steeper sides culminating with the grandest of all courts at Chichen Itza -- almost a hundred meters long with vertical sidewalls. 

Rings are positioned vertically in the middle of each sidewall where the sloping side meets the vertical wall.  The most important points were scored by getting the ball through the ring.  This was a very rare event because rings are barely larger than the ball and were positioned far from players who couldn’t use hands or feet.  

A less important point was scored by hitting the ball against the ring and having it bounce off.  It is believed points could also be scored by having the ball bounce on a marker or by hitting the ball against the corners at each end of the sidewalls.  Points may have been scored for dominating the ball.  There were many ways of scoring points, all of which were of different value.  No two games were identical.  

The ball game may have had a similar function to Greek oracles.  Wise priests, perhaps even nobles, understood the nature, and order, of the points to be part of a conversation between two gods who were influencing the scoring of the points and thereby allowing the priests to eavesdrop on the divine dialog.  Priests could gain insight into the needs and concerns of the gods and use that insight to guide their offerings.  

Hang around the ball court in Chichen Itza and you'll hear a group being told that the captain of the losing team was sacrificed for playing poorly. The next group may be told the captain of the winning team was sacrificed for playing so well and that he went on to become a god and accompany the sun on its daily journey through the sky.  I side with those who say that the sacrificed player had volunteered before the game even began.  

Just as in a conversation there is no winner or loser, in the eyes of the priests and nobles there probably was no winning or losing team.  The winners and losers were the spectators.  Those who watched, without understanding the religious subtleties, placed bets on each point.  Spaniards report it wasn't only trinkets that were bet.   People bet harvests, home, and even themselves and their families into slavery.  Huge sums were transferred at the ball games.  The bets were paid as the points were scored. 

Those of us who enjoy team sports, either as players or spectators, might say a quiet thanks to those ancient Mesoamericans; is there really much difference between what happens at today’s sportsbooks and at the ancient ballcourts?

A Chichen-Itzá Pilgrimage

Tens of thousands of people all over the world are finalizing their travel plans and getting ready to travel to Chichen-Itzá in order to be there on the spring equinox.  They'll watch a magnificent light and shadow spectacle on the side of the north-facing stairway of the Castillo, a temple most probably dedicated to Kukulcan, the Maya version of Quetzalcoatl.

The sun, on its apparent trip north, will pass over the equator in the early morning hours of March 20.  That evening, as it sets over the Yucatan Peninsula, the north-westernmost corner of the stepped pyramid will cast shadows on the outside of the 'banister' of one of the four stairways leading to the top of the pyramid.  A series of illuminated triangles will be projected on the side of the stairway.  The serpent's head at the base of the stairway will be fully illuminated -- the triangles will become the serpent's body.

If you're going, I'd suggest you do so two days before or after the equinox.  The effect will be similar and you'll be able to witness it without the crowds and masters of ceremonies sent out by the tourism department with loudspeakers to 'improve' on what the sun and ancient Maya astronomers joined forces in creating.

Take a small scissor legged folding chair or a beach towel to lie on and be comfortable.  It takes a while for the whole event to play out.  If you're not comfortable it might seem like Mr. Sun has gotten stuck in the sky.

Only two of the Castillo's four stairways have been restored.  Fortunately one of them hosts the light and shadow event.  As is characteristic of prominent post-classic temples, it sits right in the middle of a huge plaza.  When Chichen-Itza flourished it had a large population and certainly attracted large numbers of people on the equinoxes.  They most probably watched and experienced the event in awe and silence.

As the light and shadow event plays out on the Castillo there will be another light and shadow event at Chichen-Itza, at the very same time, which probably won't be witnessed by anyone.  However it will occur -- even if no one is there to see it -- in a very small space in the uppermost room of the Caracol, which probably functioned as an astronomical observatory.

Three surviving windows face into an observation chamber at the top of what was a round tower but now looks more like an upended conch shell.  The windows are square (about 50x50 cm.) with very long windowsills (about two meters).  Long windowsills restrict the view -- nevertheless a considerable expanse of horizon can be seen.  One vernal equinox, while the crowd was watching the light show on the Castillo, I was the only one in the observatory chamber of the Caracol.  The setting sun created a shadow on half the windowsill leaving the other half illuminated.  A diagonal line separated light from shadow -- a line from the right hand corner on the inside, to the left hand corner on the outside of the windowsill.  Perfectly straight -- a precise line of sight.  Marvelous. Each windowsill provides two horizontal lines of sight.  Different nights offer different events to be seen.  Modern astronomers have identified twenty astronomical events that can be seen through the Caracol's surviving windows.

Last week I described Xochicalco's observatory which allows for focused views of heavenly objects -- something the Caracol observatory cannot do since it is set up for naked eye observations along designated sightlines.  Xochicalco's observatory restricts viewing to one spot in the sky while the Caracol tower offered a full circle of views of the horizon through its multiple windows. In a simlar vein, though Xochicalco has only one observation shaft, I suspect that doorways -- now filled with rubble -- opening off the tunnel leading to the observation chamber accessed other observation rooms where shafts point to different spots in the sky.

Xochicalco's astronomers could not move their focused telescopes.  But, could they move themselves to another room -- for a different view into the sky -- just as astronomers in the Caracol could move to another window? Xocicalco's observatory, the Caracol's observation windows, and the light and shadow spectacle on the Castillo are very different yet each served ancient astronomer-priests in verifying that their calendar was synchronized with the council of the gods. That, in turn, confirmed that their offerings were being delivered to their gods at the appropriate moments in time.

Of the three, the Castillo required the greatest coordination of architects and astronomer-priests in its design.  Unlike Xochicalco's observatory and the Caracol's windows, the Castillo offered a public event for the whole population.  It is still fulfilling that function today.

Xochicalco's ancient observatory

A mere 45 minutes' drive south of Cuernavaca, Xochicalco's underground astronomical observatory is again open after almost three years of closure.   I was fortunate to visit it twice last week while leading study trips for four visiting North American university groups:  Carleton, McMaster, and St. Francis Xavier Universities of Canada, and the University of Minnesota.

We usually think of observatories as domed buildings where astronomers look into the center of the night sky with accurate modern telescopes allowing comparison of photos of the sky taken years ago with those taken tonight.  Lacking such precision if, with the naked eye, we look through a hole in the ceiling of a building there is no guarantee that when we return next year to confirm the observation, we’ll again look along the same sightline -- our point of reference, the ceiling, is so close that any change in our position distorts observations.  However, if we make our observations on the distant horizon from a high point, such as the doorway of a temple at the top of an ancient pyramid, it won’t much matter whether we lean against the temple’s right-hand doorjamb and next year the left-hand doorjamb.

It’s likely most ancient Mesoamerican astronomical observations were made watching for astronomical events occurring between peaks or landmarks on the horizon. Heights of pyramids at various archeological sites seem determined by how high a building must be for clear views of the horizon.  At Tikal, with 50-meter high forests, temples appear perched on treetops. At Chichen-Itza, with only 15-meter high trees, buildings also seem perched on the treetops.
 
Unlike other Mesoamerican astronomers, Xochicalcans were apparently not content with observing the horizon and wanted to record accurate observations in the center of the sky.  They accomplished this feat by creating underground observatories, with ceilings so thick you can only see the sky when directly beneath what I will call a "shaft". The almost vertical shaft of Xochicalco’s reopened observatory is about 7-meters long. Adding three meters from floor to ceiling of the observation chamber makes the focal distance, from the floor of the observation chamber to the outside, 10 meters.  The shaft angles slightly north to where the sun is at noon on the summer solstice, allowing direct sunlight to hit the floor of the underground room on that day.

Additionally, since the diameter of the shaft is about 45 centimeters, the sun shines directly into the underground room for 52 days before the solstice and 52 days after. Add to this the solstice itself and for 105 days a year, starting on April 30, the sun shines directly in. For 260 days it does not. Interestingly Mesoamericans had a 260-day ritual calendar!

During daylight hours a one-meter wide circle of diffuse light forms on the floor of the observatory chamber.  On days when the direct sunlight hits the floor, shortly before noon a needle point of direct sunlight appears on the west side of the diffuse circle and makes its way across the circle from west to east.  As it travels it gets larger until it resembles the size and shape of an American football in the center of the circle. Continuing east it becomes smaller until once again a needle point of light on the east side of the circle. All this in less than an hour.  Direct sunlight on the observatory floor will not reappear until the following day.
 
The fact that direct sunlight makes its way across the floor from west to east as the sun moves through the sky from east to west always made me think of a pinhole camera, in which everything is inverted.  I wanted to try to focus it and see if we'd be able to see an image of the sun.  In 1991 there was a total eclipse of the sun at midday in July -- the time of day when the sun shines into the observatory.  Imagine my excitement at the prospect of focusing the image of the eclipse in such an ancient observatory!
 
To prove the possibility of this I enlisted volunteers to go into the observation chamber and place posterboard on the floor creating a smooth white surface.  In the plaza above the observatory I covered the top of the shaft with cardboard with a ten-centimeter diameter cut-out covered with aluminum foil.   I had various diameters of wire with me -- a needle, followed by a pin, a paper clip, a coat hanger and, as a last resort, scissors.  I poked the needle through the foil and shouted down "Anything happening?"  The answer from below was "Nothing."

I enlarged the hole with the pin.  Still, "Nothing."  When I pierced it with the straightened paper clip, I heard an exultant cry, "It's in focus!"  I raced to the tunnel entrance and into the chamber.  There, on the floor of the observatory was a 12 centimeter diameter image of the sun in perfect focus; we could even see its sunspots as it moved across the floor from west to east.  Spectacular!  Imagine Xochicalco's observatory housing a focused and accurate telescope for solar observations 105 days a year, and year-long nighttime observations.  I celebrate it’s reopening.

The sound of archaeology

At Mesoamerican archeological sites you’ll frequently see groups of people facing long stairways and clapping their hands, listening for an unusual echo. Although indeed a strange sound, I always refused to clap with my groups. It seemed hokey to me, certainly not something to be encouraged on a study trip.

Why would the echo at an archeological site be different from any other stairway’s echo? For me this changed at the 1999 Palenque Round Table – an event that annually draws four to five hundred people with an interest in Maya archeology. The Round Table lasts a week – Monday through Friday.

Speakers start at the top of the hour and present for forty minutes, followed by twenty minutes of questions and answers. In 1999, so many people requested time to speak that organizers set aside Thursday and Friday afternoon for fifteen-minute talks – followed by five minutes of questions and answers – squeezing three speakers into each hour. Few speakers respected the time frame.

The only way to stay on schedule was to cancel the Qs & As. Tuesday I was the first in line for lunch. After making my way through the buffet I set off toward the most distant corner of the huge dining room hoping to eat my lunch in peace and quiet and not talk with anyone. I glanced over my shoulder and saw a man following me with his tray.

Before sitting down at what I already thought of as ‘my’ table, he asked if I spoke English. Reluctantly, I acknowledged that I do. After introducing himself, David Lubman proceeded to tell me that he was the last speaker on Thursday. Immediately I knew his presentation was important enough to be scheduled but that he had a lousy time frame.

Who was going to stick around for the last fifteen-minute talk on Thursday? He went on to tell me he had never been to one of these meetings before. In fact, up until two years earlier he had never even visited a Maya archeological site. Would I be willing to let him read me his paper and tell him if I thought it would be interesting to participants in the Round Table? “It’ll only take fifteen minutes,” he said. I already knew that.

I agreed, and he proceeded to read. On a Caribbean cruise with a stop at Cozumel he’d signed up for an optional overnight Chichen Itza tour. As was to be expected, his tour guide clapped in front of the stairway of the Castillo pyramid. Lubman was more intrigued than most by the strange echo because he’s an acoustical engineer.

He realized he needed to make a recording of the sound but it had to be when it was quiet with no loud tour guides, no noisy busses with their engines and air-conditioners running. Back in his hotel room he packed a high-quality tape recorder with directional microphones in his daypack. Serendipitously, his tour package included the evening light and sound show in Chichen’s main plaza. Along with his group, he returned to the site after dinner, daypack on his back. After the show he hung back, hid, and waited till all the visitors and park staff left.

Then he set up his recorder and microphones and clapped his hands. Satisfied with the recording’s quality he surreptitiously left the site – it would be just as bad to be caught sneaking out, as sneaking in. The following morning Lubman returned to Cozumel and reboarded his ship back to the United States. Back home, he obtained a recording of songs and chirpings of unusual birds of Mesoamerica and made a computergenerated graph of each recording.

The graph of the chirping of the quetzal bird was virtually identical to that of the echo! This is particularly fascinating as the quetzal’s long tail feathers were the most prized for headdresses of Mesoamerica’s ruling class. In fact in Nahuatl, ‘quetzal’ is synonymous with ‘precious’. Indeed, it is the first half of the god Quetzalcoatl’s name. David Lubman asked if I thought his paper would be of interest to the group gathered for the Round Table. I told him, “They’ll be fascinated.”

Over lunch I had an uninterrupted opportunity to ask him all the questions I wanted. I learned that this type of echo only occurs on stairways in which the tread is shorter than the height of the risers. This combination gives the echo a ‘chir-roop’ sound which first ascends, then falls nearly an octave.

I attended Lubman’s talk on Thursday afternoon. It was just as he had read it to me at lunch on Tuesday. I stayed for some of the questions and answers and then went to dinner. An hour later I returned to the auditorium; Lubman was still answering questions about this whole new facet of archeology.

Who ever thought we’d be able to graph sounds? It turned out he had the best time frame of all. With no speaker scheduled after him he continued answering questions into the night. I now unabashedly clap at archeological sites and always look forward to hearing the now familiar chir-roop of the quetzal.