After dinner Cheryl and I decide to walk back through the ruins, just a few kilometers away from our airstrip camp. We take a side trail that we had previously familiarized ourselves with, and begin to follow "wild" sounds up a hill and therefore into the jungle canopy. The voices we are following are the unmistakable roars of the sentinels of this "neck" of the rain forest; the primal utterances of "mano congo" -- the small great ape of Mesoamerica -- the Howler Monkey. At dusk and dawn various groups call out to one another from differing locations within the jungle. Their sound is like no other; starting with grunt-barks, the resonance (steadily louder) becomes a roar, not unlike a lion's statement, perhaps as heard through a metal pipe or tunnel. As a human approaches the sound becomes almost deafening. Placing oneself directly underneath the monkeys allows the unwitting individual to be pelted by fruit, and then urinated upon.

After some time, we join the rest of the group in the plaza of the ruins and when we (the human visitors) reappear from behind adjacent structures, the monkeys begin roaring again. It is a troupe from the giant Ceiba tree on the edge of the excavation. The apes seem to be guarding this area of the forest from our intrusion. We all spend the final available daylight enjoying the each other's and nature's presence in the beautiful backcountry of southern Chiapas, Mexico.

It's getting quite dark, so we now hasten to our encampment and retire to the tents. These are two-person "pup" tents with canvas skins doubling as rainflys. I struggle to secure the dwelling (a must in this jungle setting) as Francisco, our head guide, advises to entirely zip up all openings. There is no insect netting, hence the resultant heat inside is much like a steam bath. Francisco has lined the floor with a very thin mattress and a blanket (for what?). The shelter must be 100+ degrees inside. We lay down, with full knowledge that actual sleep may not be on the agenda this evening. As we lay motionless, dozing off to the Howler Monkeys from Guatemala challenging their cousins from Mexico, the wind begins to blow. How curious, I think, for the tropical rain forest. Then it comes. Rain. Rain like you've never experienced. Driving rain, vertical rain, horizontal rain, glorious rain, cooling rain. Constant lightning strikes. I poke outside. The air is cooler. It's also almost light out, as the lightning is so constant that the airstrip and village are clearly visible. The Europeans retreat to Francisco's tent, located under a shelter. (I am left to ponder where Francisco slept.) We remain, actually using the previously discarded blanket. These canvas tents really are stable (heavy!) in the wind and rain. No leaking. We drift off to a comfortable sleep.

Near dawn the rain-drenched jungle is utterly, almost unwittingly quiet. Then the sounds start anew; a crescendo of joyous monkeys, birds, insects and life -- after a fulfilling rain -- celebrating the dawn of yet another day in the primeval lowland rain forest.