It's the sound of the howler monkeys that first strikes you. Even before the low clouds relinquish their hold on the enormous limestone pyramids for which Tikal is famous, the monkeys roar a salutation to the day. The males' song is a formidable coarse howl that seems way out of proportion to the child-sized, black primate itself and suggests to me the imminent arrival of a Tyrannosaurus rex, or some other primeval monster.
It was a sound that made it difficult to appreciate that you were also in a place where human ingenuity has achieved worldwide celebrity. The ruins at Tikal date from as early as 900BC, but the site is best known for structures originating at the time of Christ, and which subsequently flourished into one of the largest, most impressive human settlements in the Americas.
At its height, in the mid-eighth century AD, Tikal was a city of 100,000 spread across 30 sq km. From the summit of a building erected in that period known
as Temple IV, a towering stone pyramid rising 65 meters towards the heavens, you can easily imagine its extent. At least you are not distracted by the clutter of the modern world, because as far as the eye can see the only structures visible are pre-Columbian and the rest is rain forest.
Tikal is one of those unforgettable locations where breathtaking human riches converge with nature's own. I have to confess I was as awed by the flocks of parrots, toucans and dazzling eye spots in the tails of wild turkeys as I was by Mayan glyphs or elaborately carved stelae of a royal dynasty memorably known as Jaguar's Paw. Yet simultaneous with a sense of biodiversity run wild, you cannot help but reflect that Tikal is also a monument to environmental ruin. Deforestation and - even more compelling - climate change laid waste to Mayan agriculture, forcing Tikal's abandonment 11 centuries ago. With its passing, the rain forest rose once more to engulf it.
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