It was almost time for sunset over the aquamarine waves on what’s often called the Lagoon of Seven Colors. We arrived a little late, hurriedly donning life jackets and settling into the cushy seats of a pontoon boat.
After casting lines, someone cracked open a bottle of chilled wine. Soon we were sipping from sleek silver glasses as the bulky boat cut a smooth path through the hanging late-day humidity, the water below clear all the way to the limestone bottom.
Looking out across the ripples in the golden-hour light, I may have detected an eighth hue of blue. Sailboats paced us, and a windsurfer skimmed by, moving surprisingly quickly given the stillness of the evening. As I prepared to settle in and just enjoy the view, a guide on board began a bit of commentary. She related a surprising bit of information: This body of water isn’t just beautiful. In fact, it’s also home to a rare and special prehistoric civilization, one that’s still very much alive.
I was on Lago Bacalar, a lake famous among Mexicans but one I had never heard of until a couple days before this trip. And that, perhaps, isn’t surprising. Yes, it’s part of the Yucatán Peninsula—a corner of this country famous for its miles of sandy beaches and bustling coastal towns—and situated in the same state that welcomes many million visitors every year. But only a small handful make their way this far south.
I was touring the quiet side of Quintana Roo. The state in the extreme southwest of Mexico is home to mega-popular destinations that will ring familiar to almost anyone who has considered a sunny winter holiday: Cancún, Playa del Carmen, Cozumel, and Tulum. But this trip took me to places far less explored.
A short flight from Mexico City, I landed in Chetumal, a city of about 170,000 people and the state capital. Set on an aquamarine bay just north of the Belizean border, from here, the bustle and glow of Tulum are about a three-hour drive north, and Cancún is a couple of hours further. By comparison, Chetumal is positively sleepy.
But the city has its charms, which may be experienced by more people soon. Officially slated to open in December, the Tren Maya will link a number of cities in southern Mexico as well as major archaeological sites. Traversing five states, this train will run almost 950 miles. Cancún sits at the top of the loop, with Chetumal as its southern terminus.
While spending a couple of days in town, I headed to one of its biggest attractions, the Museum of Mayan Culture, which sits on an entire city block. Tracing about 2,500 years of history until the arrival of the Spanish in the late 16th century, I walked through a thatch-roofed, recreated village and past displays that trace trade routes and demonstrate the day-to-day lives of these ancient and complex people. My favorite thing was a series of scale models of Mayan sites set under a glass floor. Walking over them felt like getting a bird’s eye view of a centuries-ago civilization, perhaps from a toucan.
Nearby, I visited Kohunlich, once a major Mayan city. Its plazas, temples, and pyramids were, until recently, reclaimed by the dense rainforest, which still crowds in from all sides. In contrast to busy Mayan sites such as Chichén Itzá or Tulum, which see heavy traffic from resort day-trippers, arriving at this relatively unvisited place feels like a journey of discovery, like you’ve unearthed it all yourself.
Occupied for about 700 years, starting in the sixth century, the city (whose original name remains unknown) was a major center of trade. Citadels rose and people gathered in courtyards. Buildings were painted red and ornamented with stucco. A complex system collected and channeled rainwater. I enjoyed just rambling around, at one point climbing a small pyramid and looking down, trying to picture what it looked like back then.
It’s a wonder, just like Bacalar. On the last night, out on the water on my pontoon trip, I found the stromatolites.
“Slowly, slowly, this lava bowl became a water bowl,” the guide said, explaining the development of the 26-mile-long lagoon as we poured our second round of wine. “It took millions of years.”
But the most remarkable thing about this place isn’t immediately visible. Stromatolites—Greek for “layered rock”—are the oldest life forms on earth. These microbial reefs look a little like rocky cauliflowers. The earliest ones, now only visible as fossils, date back 3 1/2 billion years.
And below the blue waters of Bacalar, they live on.
“We have the biggest area of freshwater stromatolites in the world,” the guide said. “They date back 9,000 years. Prehistoric. And still alive.”
