Above, visitors to the Monte Albán archaeological site near Oaxaca city, January 30. The site is breath-taking -- rising 1,300 feet from the floor of the surrounding valleys, a mountaintop shaved away by the Zapotecs who built upon it a grand, complex city that shone for one thousand years. The last time I was here was in 2002, when I took my ritual post-university solo backpacking trip through southern Mexico.
On the afternoon I visited, I watched as a rainstorm approached the mountain from the east. I stood on the highest platform on the site's northern cluster and watched the rain roll menacingly in our direction, blanketing and shrouding the homes and buildings far below, until we were inside the cloud itself.
Soaking, pounding rain. A wall of rain. People rushed to huddle inside the Monte Albán museum, shivering. I hung back. I stood alone on the platforms and arid fields, drenched, taking my time to descend to any van that was heading back down the hill.
Rain is noisy but it also carries a curious kind of silence. It's just you and the elements. It was totally worth it.
* Previously, "Tattoo shops in Oaxaca," "Beef consomé," "Tlaloc ate babies," "Rain on Easter Sunday," "An über-hip version of the rain god?"