This past Friday night, I stumbled into something I didn’t know I was missing.
While walking through Centro Mérida, I happened upon a Pok ta Pok game being played as part of Mérida Fest, the city’s celebration of its 484th birthday. I knew almost immediately that this was not just another performance or sporting event. There was an energy in the air that felt communal, reverent, and alive.
I arrived early enough to find a good spot, and that small bit of luck made all the difference. People gathered steadily, families and visitors shoulder to shoulder, clearly excited and curious. Before the game began, the organizers brought the ball through the crowd so everyone could touch it. Holding it was surprising. It was heavy, solid, and unforgiving. It instantly gave me a new respect for what was about to happen.
The event opened ceremonially. A shaman stepped forward and blessed the space, the crowd, and the players using copal incense. The scent lingered in the air, grounding the moment and signaling that what we were about to witness carried meaning far beyond entertainment. The players stood painted head to toe, each one uniquely decorated with body paint that felt both personal and symbolic.
Drums and a flute began to play, slow and rhythmic, echoing through the plaza. The players moved together in a native dance around a fire pit, their motions deliberate and focused. It felt ancient, not reenacted but remembered. When the dance ended, the game began.
Pok ta Pok is unlike any sport I have ever seen. The players are only allowed to use their hips and the sides of their bodies to strike the ball. No hands. No feet. Their goal is to send the heavy rubber ball through a stone ring mounted high on the court. Watching them lift the ball when it stayed low to the ground was astonishing. The strength, precision, and timing required felt almost unreal.
I have watched countless sporting events in my life, but this one held my attention in a completely different way. The only constant noise was the beat of the drum. Every movement mattered. Every strike of the ball was met with gasps, cheers, or collective anticipation from the crowd.
After both teams scored, the ceremony shifted again. The fire pit was lit once more, and this time a different ball appeared, one that was set on fire. Now the rules changed. The players could use their hands, passing the flaming ball between teammates. Some of them played with the crowd’s emotions, bouncing the fire from hand to hand before finally passing it on. The tension was electric.
Each team managed to send the burning ball through the ring as well. When they missed, the crowd groaned together in disappointment. When they succeeded, the plaza erupted in celebration. It was joyful, raw, and deeply human.
What makes Pok ta Pok even more powerful is its history. This game originated with the ancient Maya and was far more than a sport. It was woven into their understanding of the universe, life, and the gods. The ballgame symbolized the movement of the sun, the balance between light and darkness, and the ongoing struggle between life and death. The outcome of this sport for Mayans carried severe consequences. Defeat could mean enslavement or even sacrifice. Winning and losing were not just about pride but about fate.
Knowing this history while watching the game added layers of meaning to every moment. The ceremonial elements, the fire, the music, and the discipline of the players all began to make sense. This was not a modern reenactment designed only to entertain tourists. It was a living connection to a worldview that still pulses through this region.
The next day, I spent the entire day at the Mayan Museum in Mérida, exploring the rise and fall of the Maya civilization. The exhibits were extraordinary, from intricate astronomical codices to finely carved stone stelae that recorded kings, battles, and ceremonies. I was captivated by the precision of their calendars, the complexity of their mathematics, and the ways they mapped the stars to guide agriculture, ritual, and city planning. At the same time, it was heartbreaking to see how colonization tried to erase this culture, burning their books, stealing sacred objects, and forbidding their practices. The museum displayed artifacts that had survived centuries of upheaval, including pottery, jewelry, ceremonial masks, and tools, each one a silent witness to resilience. Walking through the galleries, I could almost feel the rhythm of a civilization that was punished yet never disappeared, and every artifact seemed to whisper stories of ingenuity, devotion, and endurance.
Visiting Izamal on Sunday made this even more tangible. There, the Convento de San Antonio de Padua sits atop ancient Maya ruins, built with stones taken from the temples below. The town itself is layered with history, and walking its streets, seeing churches built directly on top of ancient structures, I could feel the contrast between what was destroyed and what survives. The colors of the buildings, the quiet plazas, and the scale of the ruins beneath made it clear how much was lost and yet how much endures. It was a striking visual reminder that culture can be suppressed but not completely erased.
Seeing Pok ta Pok first, then learning the history, and finally standing in places where that history was physically overwritten gave me a deeper understanding of resilience. Despite centuries of erasure, these traditions are still alive. They are practiced, shared, and celebrated in public spaces, not hidden or diminished.
What struck me most was the contrast. A civilization once suppressed through force, fire, and stone now reasserts itself through ceremony, movement, and memory. Watching Pok ta Pok in the heart of Mérida, then walking through museums and ruins where that culture was nearly overwritten, made one thing clear. History may be buried, repurposed, or rewritten, but it does not disappear. It waits. The drums I heard that night were not just music. They were a heartbeat. And despite everything done to silence it, when given space, it rises again.
These experiences continue to shape the work I’m making in real time. I share the progression of my paintings, along with behind-the-scenes images and studio moments, exclusively through my mailing list. It’s the only place where I document the work as it’s unfolding. If you’re interested in seeing that process, you’re welcome to join.
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