The Land Rover stopped in front of the ancient chapel in a cloud of dust. You'd think a rain-forest would be wet. But the packed trails dried up with the trees gone. And this area had been cleared centuries ago. The building was small and almost completely overgrown except for the windows and doors, but even then had thick surroundings of leafy cover and underlying vines.
Al wrestled himself out of the back seat to join us at the front. "The chapel was all that was left of a church and surrounding pueblo when the Spanish had attempted to settle this area in the 1500's."
"The legends say that they Spanish never were really able to control these people, calling them lazy, among other things. It was said that they didn't even make good slaves. The Spanish word for this area meant literally, 'Land of the Fools.' As they couldn't raise taxes or govern these people in any way, they simply pulled out. Only the church friars stayed on, but their conversion of the locals took far longer."
A brown-frocked priest of native ancestry came through the massive front doors to greet them. "Yes, and it was only really successful because the adults loved the Sunday School stories as much as the children. We couldn't get them to Mass, unless we told a parable in simple terms first. Hello, I'm Father Jorge'. But you can call me George."
"This is one of the earliest settlements of the Spanish, and is probably their oldest failure. Even the name of the place was lost in antiquity, probably because nobody wanted to be known as the "Church of the Fools.'"
Of course, this made Doreen and I look at each other, while Alphonse only smiled and shrugged. "But that isn't why this place is interesting to us. It's what's inside," he said.
Father George led us in to the tiny chapel. "This was once just a chapel, but was the only part of the original church that the natives - my ancestors - would help restore or maintain. And that was because this was always where the Sunday School lessons were held originally. As well, the locals decorated the pews and woodwork with their locally native rocks. Most of this wood is original to this building and so is hundreds of years old, yet as sturdy as the day it was built."
We looked over the pews and wainscoting to find that it was inlaid with thousands of tiny white stones. Those that were in the direct sunlight sparkled brilliantly as it came in the open doors.
"The legend of these stones is that they came from the sky, and the name literally means 'tears of God.' I'm no geologist, but those who have visited here have never been able to place this stone exactly, only saying that it had to be of meteorite origin, which would explain the name. How so many of them got here is anyone's guess."
Turning to the altar, the cross was almost entirely made of that same white stone, only separated by a thin gold and platinum setting. As I got closer, I could see it was made from the same wire as the amulet. While the base seemed to be native wood, it was so overlaid with stone, nothing was visible except the base.
"And you may find the story of this cross interesting. Originally, this cross was built up over the years by native craftsmen, who would add onto the original wooden cross every week over the years. And it eventually became so beautiful that the friars wanted to move it into the main sanctuary. The only problem is that when they did, something would break out there and the next day, the cross would be back. So they finally quit trying to move it.
"In fact, the legend says that when the Spanish withdrew, they tried to take the cross with them, and that was what caused the church to fall, along with the rest of the pueblo. Massive earthquakes which only shook the buildings and hurt no one. Well, it is said that who ever was carrying the cross got inexplicably bruised. And mules would not carry it beyond the village gates. So they put it back and had to settle with curses.
"The source of the gold and platinum has never been found. Eventually, the congregation dwindled and the arts of these craftsmen were lost. While there are some who continue to search for the gold and platinum, mostly this small chapel remains unknown. Some try to break in and steal, but they are never successful. We always leave the doors and windows unlocked. Locks always break, anyway. We only try to keep the rain out, not the people.
"While my father and his father and grandfather have continued in the tradition of priest, our main function is to tell the parables every Sabbath. Some are married here and our occasional visitors, such as yourselves, like to hear our stories, even though they never believe them. But that's OK, because we are all Fools here." Father George smiled at this, his little joke.
I pulled out the amulet to compare its settings with those of the pews and other woodwork.
As the father saw it, his eyes became wide as he crossed himself, muttering a prayer in a native dialect. "Well, for all my stories, you have one to tell yourself. This is the largest amulet of this type I have seen for some time. You know why you have it, I assume?"
Al butted in, "I'm sorry Father, but I haven't had time to tell him. Please forgive me." And he bowed his head to the priest, who made a gesture over his head.
"You are, of course, forgiven, Alphonse. And I thank you for your gift."
Curious about this Doreen broke her silence. "What gift, Al?"
The priest turned to her. "Why, that you all are here. That is the greatest gift possible. Your beauty graces this humble chapel, as well as your wisdom. And you may ask me anything you want, for each of you has your own troubles to resolve."
Smiling more broadly, "But where are my manners? You are guests and it is close to lunch time. Today we have a fiesta in your honor!"
Leading out a side door, they were immediately surrounded by a huge outdoor garden, festooned with all manner of flowers, climbing vines on top of the high walls of the ruined Main Church proper. The chapel was on the left wing of the original transept, with a still-standing wall behind the original apse. Surprisingly, the ground was clear of all clutter within the church proper, as was the ground inside clear of vines and shrubbery. Only low grass grew within the original walls.
When I remarked on this to Father George, he replied, "We do allow flocks to graze here, which keep the shrubbery at bay, and the grass short. As for the stones, it is part of that old legend that the Church seemed to explode when it toppled, leaving most of the stonework outside. There are still some local families who can tell the story of an ancestor who was in the Church that day. It seemed the Spanish were holding the village inside this building and would not let them leave. So they prayed in their own native tongue (which also upset the Spanish) until the roof blew off and the sides toppled. At that point, the guards ran away and the villagers could simply walk out. That was really the end of the rule of these Spanish."
Doreen and I sat on one of the low stone benches which occasionally appeared along the walls. As the sunlight filtered through the high trees surrounding the ruins, we could hear children laughing nearby. Women with baskets on their heads entered from what was the original narthex entrance in single file and proceeded to split off to unload their goods, almost with a practiced ritual.
Those goods turned out to be various foods of many types, spread on colorful blankets, in patterns duplicated from their own multi-hued dresses. After the women, the men came, carrying spits of cooked goat and wild game which they then set up in the main aisle. Children raced in with garlands of cut flowers, some of which ended up around our necks, the others on the walls and benches, as well as everyone present, even the Father.
As the children gave away their garlands, they found their family spot and sat, all facing the apse, where the original altar stood - now only containing a large, rectangular, moss-covered stone. Here Father George stood with upraised hand.
The father gave a short prayer in native dialect and made the sign of the Cross, which all the people present returned.
At that, a large shout went up and musicians began playing native tunes, lively and with a practiced ease.
"One thing the village is noted for, quite in addition to our chapel, is our tradition of celebrating and giving thanks - almost for anything and everything. God has blessed this region and we hope to return the favor by showing our gratitude for our continuing good health and prosperity."
"It's the good health thing that I think you'll be interested in," whispered Al in my ear. He was immediately joined by two young local women who plied him with fruit and meat, as well as various breads and cheeses - all downed with local wines and liqueurs.
We were similarly besieged with this native hospitality, and it wasn't long before we were all merrily being taught native versions of Spanish songs which were all followed with eating or drinking something.
This continued well past night, when they put torches in ancient holders built into the walls. The last I remember is laying back against the stone wall with its fragrant flowers and trying to remember if I was supposed to eat or drink at the end of the next chorus, while not particularly caring...