I don’t know what I’m doing here, on a bus for the past three hours, heading into a history lesson. The woman in front of me has fallen asleep with her seat reclined fully, while the children behind me kick my seat with squeals of laughter. Although I didn’t come here for the sun, where is the beach I longed for back in New York? I definitely didn’t come here for the mosquitoes, incessant creatures brushing against my face. Yet still, where is the all-inclusive room service? The go-kart track? The snorkeling pool? During final exams, I certainly hadn’t daydreamed of spending my summer vacation staring at plants!

As the bus jolts along the beaten road, a rerun of an old thriller drones overhead, competing with the chatter of tourists. I bundle up my jacket and stuff it under my head. Somehow, I seem to be lacking the enthusiasm of everyone else.

“Hola, todos escuchan por favor.” (“Everyone listen up please.”) Erik, our tour guide, is a large man whose wavy black hair and nose reflect his native Mayan heritage. His voice rasps through the bus’s speakers.

Too bored for words, I look out the window and focus on what is ahead. Dappled sunlight dances across the nearly transparent leaves of the Yucatán forest. Under the intense sun, the green foliage glows, flashing past our bus in streaks of soft yellow and harsh white. Sunlight slips through openings in the canopy, and golden shadows stretch over the moss blanketing the forest floor. Every inch blossoms with light. In the forest, things take on a new perspective. The scorching daylight, unwelcome on the streets of Cancun, is embraced here.

The bus rumbles into the heart of the forest, revealing gnarly trees, deeply rooted in the jungle floor. Down below, shoots of grass push through rich brown soil in search of sun. All things in this forest are interdependent. Even mankind’s crude roadway plays a role, directing rainwater into the soil.

As we travel along the desolate road, only the forest keeps us company. I think of the pulse that runs through New York City, the seductive beat of city life. Here, in the Yucatán forest, serenity prevails. The rustling of branches replaces the honking of horns. The scurrying of animals substitutes for the chatter of smart phones. The towering trees stand in lieu of foreboding skyscrapers.

As I exit the bus, I am smacked by the sunlight. The world around me is burning. I fumble to put on my sunglasses. Our group has gathered near a sign that reads “Chichen Itza.” There’s a long flight of stairs to the gate. Beside me, an old man struggles to climb the steps with his heavy backpack. His face glistens with determination. At the halfway point, he pauses and guzzles an entire bottle of water.

When we finally get through admissions, I imagined we would head to the first tourist spot, but before we walk even a few yards, Erik stops. I look around, confused. Other groups keep going, laughing and taking carefree photos. From what I can tell, there isn’t anything significant here. A chain of ubiquitous souvenir stands. The jungle encroaching on the pathway. The people around me seem equally puzzled, whispering, looking at our tour guide for an explanation.

“This,” Erik says, gesturing toward the forest, “is the tree of life.”

I notice the tree for the first time. With a covering of green bark, it blends in with the foliage around it. The tree is strange, as if it has been twisted from hundreds of thin saplings, the trunks bonding together over the centuries, interlocking to create this new entity.

Erik points toward its leafy crown. “The falling of leaves symbolizes death.” As if responding to some force in his words, a few leaves pirouette through the air. “Yet even when the leaves touch the ground and decompose, their nutrients are absorbed by the roots, then travel to the top of the tree, where the process begins anew. For many, death is a waste of life, but we Mayans believe that death completes life; we believe that every individual completes the whole.”

We walk along the path. The sun beats down. Our group is silent. I am confused by Erik’s words. How does any single thing complete us all? He motions for us to stop. We stand in bewildered silence.

But then, just as I tune my senses to the forest …. Ba-boom. Ba-boom. Ba-boom. A deep rumble reverberates from the ground. A steady thump, a heartbeat.

My feet move toward the sound of a drum. Knowing that there is always more than meets the eye in the Yucatán, I carefully survey the area and spot a vendor playing a pair of stained wooden bongos. His calloused hands strike the drums rapidly, as if trying to keep up with his own beat, yet … the ba-boom plays on steady and slow. His arms maintain their motion, his fingers tapping out an intricate rhythm, but the notes in between the heartbeat are swallowed by the soil, feeding the forest.

As I reluctantly rejoin our group, I can still feel the beat in my pulse. We enter a grassy field. There are no covered tourist stands here, not a sliver of shade. We are completely exposed to the scorching sun. Even with sunglasses, I must squint to see. Everything is a brilliant, brilliant yellow white.

Our tour guide brings us to a vast stone arena. “This is the site of the first organized sport, the Mayan Ball Game,” he begins. “Hitting a five-pound ball with only their hips, players on both teams tried to get it through stone hoops seven meters off the ground. What’s amazing about this game, however, isn’t the difficulty. It’s that the captain of the winning team was sacrificed. Although these athletes enjoyed the game, their willingness to die for their fellow man represents the Mayan people.”

I walk along the stone walls, running my fingers over ancient carvings, still remarkably intact. The solemn stone faces of the players of this deadly game stare at me with unmoving eyes, their actions set into this wall, frozen as a reminder of what Mayan culture once was.

We walk, and walk, and walk for what feels like hours under the blistering sun. When the colossal Pyramid of Kukulcan finally comes into view, it seems like a mirage. When I am 100 feet away, the ancient stone mountain emerges from the heat wave, mercifully shadowing the area with shade.

The pyramid rises step by step, flat square block upon flat square block, each smaller than the last. On all sides, elaborate stone staircases rise toward its zenith, reaching for the flaming sun overhead.

Erik walks to one of the pyramid’s faces. Like a string of obedient schoolchildren, we follow. I catch a glimpse of the old man draining yet another water bottle. Erik stands straight, facing the pyramid’s front. He turns off his mike, and the deep tones of his voice reverberate off the pyramid’s stone blocks.

“Come closer. Please, sit,” he beckons, and we do. Slowly, measuring out his words, he begins to speak.

“Chichen Itza was the heart of the great Mayan civilization. Built around 600 A.D., it was their capital city. While other civilizations were just beginning, the Mayan Empire had already reached its peak of power and influence. It was one of the most successful indigenous societies on Earth.

“Experts attributed our success to the geography, to our economy, and even to our gods; but the real reason is much simpler.”

Erik’s eyes furrow in concentration, recalling the ways of a wiser time.

“We thrived because every individual contributed to the whole. We succeeded because each of us strove to give as much as we could to the group. We completed our whole, and in return, our whole completed us.

“Notice the pyramid behind us points to the sun, the force unifying us all. From the four corners of the Earth, we look up and feel the warmth of community. It sustains and strengthens us. We rely on one another. We are like the Yucatán that surrounds us, the jungle that is created by its component parts. Together, we find meaning, purpose, life.”

He points to the top of the pyramid behind us. Our lesson is not over.

“That was where the Mayans were sacrificed to the god Kukulcan. It all happened here, under the relentless yet vitalizing sun. Kings spilled their blood for peasants. Warriors knelt down to civilians. This is where the team captain was led to his death. Now think of today’s modern athletes, whose childish behavior and selfish antics often make headlines – and then remember the Ball Game, where players considered it an honor to die.”

As Erik’s words sink in, the inevitable questions come. How had these beautiful values disappeared? When did we, as human beings, begin to lose ourselves, lose our dedication to community, to fellow man?

Our bus rumbles back into the Yucatán. The forest is strewn with shadows, dancing with the ensuing darkness. Plant life hides under the cloak of night; animals retreat to safety.

Across the aisle sits the old man with the backpack. I watch as he tips his head back, the last drop of water trickling down his throat. In the last 15 minutes, he has emptied three bottles.

Before I realize what I am doing, I reach across the aisle that separates us and hand him a new bottle. He looks at me in surprise. Then his face lights up and he gives a loud, boisterous laugh, startling for his age. Heads swivel in our direction, amused at this unlikely interaction.

“Thank you, young man.”

I don’t know what to say, but somehow the words form naturally in my mouth.

“You’re welcome. What brought you here?”

He smiles, a kind smile. “For years my wife convinced me not to take this trip; she was afraid I would get heat stroke or something. Maybe she was right, but she’s gone now.”

His smile fades.

“Yet, how could I not go? Some things in life you can’t afford to miss. Especially when you’re my age.”

After another sip of water, he asks, “And you? Why did you come?”

I try to answer, to put my feelings into words, but how can I describe the bloodied steps of the Pyramid of Kukulcan or the coarse stone masonry of the Great Ballcourt? Even now, I can almost feel a rhythm pounding beneath my feet. The torpid heat and cool palms. The sweat dripping off my back, evaporating into rain. Language holds me back, but I think he knows what I am trying to say. For now, it is enough.