Calakmul

"So, it is agreed," a heavy hand landed on my shoulder. "We hire a car, you drive. Tomorrow is my birthday, I will be 72, this will be my last chance to see Calakmul, I think."

How could I refuse? I had met Ole (pronounced Oola) while chatting to his much younger compatriot at the hostel. He farms a few acres near Oslo "for a hobby, for fun" during the summer and in the winter, with his generous state pension strapped to his belt, his back and every limb, he travels the world seeking adventure.

He´s supernaturally full of vim and energy, despite constantly smoking full-strength filterless cigarettes. He also has a pipe loaded with rich, dark tobacco tucked into his sock for emergencies, and never ventures forth without one-litre water bottles full of pre-mixed rum and coke in his bag.

And so it was that I found myself behind the wheel of a small automobile with Ole and Geir (who isn´t overly concerned about the world´s oil supply, just a remarkable mine of facts on almost every subject) setting out on a five-hour drive deep into the jungle.

Calakmul was only discovered in 1931 but archaeologists have since determined that it was the most powerful city in ´The Kingdom of the Serpent´s Head´ (a vast area that stretched well into present-day Guatemala) from about 250BC to 700AD. The 6,500 buildings so far discovered are hidden away in the heart of a vast nature reserve, ensuring that despite the size and magnificence of the site, very few visitors ever reach it.

The journey seemed never-ending. As well as the huge distance, there was also the issue of the vicious speed bumps that the Mexican authorities have installed in every town, village and hamlet. Even isolated cattle sheds had rumble strips in front of them.

One thing that enlivened the journey was guessing the names of approaching towns. After (in translation) Hope, Conception, Struggle, Liberty and Constitution, what else could be next than Social Justice? (Like all the others it was a scruffy little place with a hundred houses, a basketball court and a bandstand.)

Eventually we arrived at the turn-off to the ruins, and paid our toll for the road through the nature reserve. The cost seemed a little steep, until we realised that we faced a further two hours winding along a deserted road overhung by jungle canopy.

The length of the journey was fitting for the site, because approaching it through the jungle paths as the only visitors made it feel as though we were the original discoverers. All that was missing to complete the illusion was a train of bandy-legged Mayans struggling under the weight of brass and mahogony scientific instruments or a pink-faced vicar with a butterfly net.

The buildings and the jungle have merged together over the years. Trees burst through the upper levels of the pyramids and monkeys clamber where kings once sat in state. More than anywhere else the site has yielded information about these great and awful rulers due to the inscribed obelisks lined up in front of every building. Since the Mayan script was deciphered in the 1980s researchers have learned that these record the births, deaths and marriages of the proud aristocracy; like 20-ton editions of Hello! magazine, but without the TV listings.

There were also small things of interest, in particular the ants that scurried over every surface. Ole came out with an interesting fact; he said that if you added up the combined weight of any type of creature, ants were the heaviest. "More so than the whales, oh yes, of every kind and size, in all the seas of the world." All around the site were lines of soldier ants moving in close formation on their mysterious migrations. Sentries spaced at regular intervals on either side of the column seemed to be keeping the troops in order, while investigating and attacking interlopers. I saw a bee stray into their path and it was soon brought down by the sentries and then covered in a swarming mass of the common soldiery. There were also ants the size of wasps that strutted like bulldogs in packs of about a dozen roughing up any smaller creatures that got in their way. I tried photographing them, but they were half way up my leg before I´d got them focused.

All too soon night began to fall and it was time to leave. Right on cue the howler monkeys started to declare their ownership of the city, their echoing cries amplified by the buildings all around the tree-filled central plaza. I´d always imagined that howler monkeys howled, for some reason, but the noises these things made came straight from the ninth circle of hell; deep growling roars that would win an Oscar for any horror film sound engineer diabolically clever enough to recreate them. I don´t mind admitting that they filled me with the eebie-geebies and hastened my departure.

After the epic return journey (which put me in mind of a Viking saga with my two Nordic passengers navigating by the moon and stars) we were treated to dinner by Ole, who insisted on paying because it was his birthday. I had Chicken Mole, which is a breast and leg cooked in a chilli and chocolate sauce. I was filled with trepidation when I ordered it, but the combination of flavours really does work in a quite unexpected way.

Despite being knackered after yesterday´s ten hour drive I was awake horribly early this morning, and I blame God. If the bells of St Clement´s really do say "oranges and lemons" then the bells of Campeche´s Catedral de la Conceptión Immaculada say "come on, come, you lazy toad, it´s six o´clock, you´ll rot in that bed, in five minutes I´m coming in to take away your duvet."

By the way, I was wrong about the pork-based tribute to the Virgin Mary. Apparently the celebrations I´ve seen here are paid for the local council and happen every single weekend from September until May. It´s incredible how the Mexicans manage to do this without bossy stewards, police back-up units, St John´s Ambulance crews or health and safety inspectors. At home it takes a committee six months to organise a jumble sale.