Impatiently riding on a broken bus seat, I am observing the passing cacti, palm trees, and deciduous trees of a familiar look, on the road from Merida to Uxmal. I remember the days when I used to scroll through the pages of encyclopedias of lost cities and ancient civilizations; imagining people of particular facial features, I made my first steps into their world. I am thinking about everything that I now know about this civilization, reluctantly realizing that my childhood obsession can fit in a poor paragraph: "The Mayans were good in astronomy. They built the pyramids. They discovered zero. The Spanish expedition defeated them. They blended with the new culture." Still, I am hoping that a visit to the archeological site will give me a purpose that my childhood fantasies were missing. The city of Uxmal flourished around the year 800, and for a long time, it was a center of the Mayan culture on the Yucatan Peninsula. Some sources suggest that it was abandoned even before the Spanish invasion, some that it was right then conquered for the first time. Hesse once stated that true spirituality cannot be lived only in the present moment; that it requires a consciousness that learns from the past so that it can live up to all dimensions of the present. That thought is particularly alive on this journey. All the internet searches and scrolling through encyclopedias can't replace the unique feeling of the place, the color of rocks in the 3 pm Yucatecan sun, and the tone of Ricardo's voice while he tells the story behind the surreal figures of snakes and eagles devouring human hearts. Uxmal welcomed me, mesmerized me, and ripped me apart, within a day. Magnificent buildings, most of which can be touched, felt and climbed. This wild meadow that strives to become a jungle once again – this is me, a digital being in pursuit of natural, primordial existence. The landscapes that invite for meditation, up there in a room at the top of the pyramid, through which the sunlight dreadfully symmetrically passes twice a year. I follow the arrows, I read the information boards in Spanish and English, but they quickly leave my mind. Instead, I am consumed by the energy of this place and an unknown smell that pierces my nostrils. I enter the room that offers a panoramic view of the pyramid and surrounding buildings. I am observing the plants whose roots are devastating the remains of the once most developed Central American civilization: it's clear who has won. The sizzling and hissing sounds of iguanas and bats are like the triumphant cries of nature, a warning even. The scent of moisture and mold from the walls, mixed with the sour smell of bat shit, enhanced with the lack of light and the dark shades of decaying stones - this is the authentic atmosphere of the Mayan sanctuary nowadays. Although for hundreds of years without its primary function, and for decades under the invasion of tourists, this sacred place has served its purpose: healing from transience and the weight of existence. My urge to immerse myself in the abandoned Mayan connection with everything carries me farther, and I won't stop exploring until the sun goes down. The bus is two hours late, and my scattered consciousness focuses on the specific people in my line of sight: a Mexican speaking French, two grannies stretching their legs, a young man with dreadlocks. The bus was already crowded, so we stood almost on each other, leaning against the driver, the door, the windows, sharing the same experience in silent discomfort. In all that commotion, the driver turned off the light and turned on the radio. With the traditional Mexican sounds, the voices from different corners of the bus started to rise: a French accent, a woman shaken by the song, a kid who can't fall asleep. And I have never been happier not to understand words, whistling the rhythm in the interdependent clenching of the hips and shoulders of total strangers that felt so similar to me. As I walk toward my accommodation in Merida, an unusual thought entertains me: "If only more people would take this bus."