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Posted July 14, 2009
The summer after my freshman year in college I spent six weeks in the sweltering jungles of the Mayan Yucatan (well, almost, as we got deported before the summer's end). With the Fort Worth Museum of History, led by Senor Juan, we were tasked with excavating and mapping a small Mayan temple on the coast, not far from Tulum, in what had been a banana plantation and would soon become the birthplace of today’s Mayan Riviera. This place was Acumal, now a resort, but then a place of coconut trees and thatch huts with no walls in which we hung our hammocks under mosquito netting. When my friend Brent H., one of the scions of Ft. Worth society, asked me if I wanted to go with him on an archaeology expedition, I must have looked at him like he had three eyes. WTF? You must be kidding. I didn’t give a rat’s ass about archaeology. “There are going to be girls,” he said. I phoned up my Mom and asked if I could got to Mexico to study archaeology immediately. From Ft. Worth to the Yucatan we rode, slept, ate, monked around in some mutant type of sawed off school bus, for days and days, weeks maybe, through small town and large city. We rode through Monterrey, Villa Hermosa, Mexico City, Merida and countless others. It must be a million miles to the Yucatan from Ft. Worth, with not a four-lane road to be seen, back in the summer of 1970.
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