To archaeologists and scientists, the blood-red pyramid remains an enigma, for its design exhibits a knowledge of astronomy and mathematics rivaling that of modern man. The structure has been geologically aligned in such a manner so that twice each year, on the spring and fall equinoxes, strange shadows begin undulating along its northern balustrade. As the late afternoon sun sinks, the enormous shadow of a serpent’s body begins slithering down the steps until it meets up with its sculpted head, which rests at the base of the structure. (In the spring, the serpent descends the balustrade, in the fall, the illusion is reversed.) Sitting atop the pyramid is a four-sided temple, originally used for worship, and only later, upon Kukulcan’s departure, for human sacrifices. Believed to have been erected in A.D. 830, the Kukulcan was originally constructed on top of a much-older structure, the remains of which can only be accessed by way of a gated entry located along the northern base. A claustrophobic passage leads to a narrow stairwell, the limestone steps of which are slick from the humidity. Ascending the staircase, one finds two cramped inner chambers. The first contains the reclining figure of a Chac Mool, a Mayan statue supporting a ceremonial plate designed to hold the hearts of its sacrificial victims. Behind the security fencing of the second chamber sits the throne of a red jaguar, its jade eyes blazing green.

Brent Nakamura hits the steady-cam switch, then pans across the sea of sweltering bodies with his SONY video recorder. Christ, there must be a hundred, thousand people here. I’ll be stuck in traffic for hours.

The San Francisco native aims the camera back toward the northern balustrade, zooming in on the shadow of the serpent’s tail as it continues its 202-minute journey up the limestone facing of the twelve-hundred-year-old pyramid.

The pungent scent of human sweat hangs heavy in the humid afternoon air. Nakamura records a Canadian couple arguing with two park officials, then shuts the camcorder off as a German tourist and his family jostle their way past him.

Glancing at his watch, Nakamura decides it best to take some footage of the sacred cenote before he loses the light. After stepping over a myriad of picnickers, he makes his way north down the ancient sacbe, an elevated dirt path lying in close proximity to the northern face of the Kukulcan. The sacbe is the only means of cutting through the dense jungle to reach the second-most-sacred site in Chichén Itza—a freshwater sinkhole known as the cenote, or Mayan well of sacrifice.

A five-minute walk brings him to the mouth of the 190-foot-wide pit, a spot where thousands of maidens were once sacrificed to death. He looks down. Sixty feet below, the dark, algae-infested waters reek of stagnation.

The distant sound of thunder draws his attention skyward.

That’s weird—not a cloud in the sky. Maybe it was a jet?