Fourth Journey Day 108: Through the Eyes of Wood and Smoke
Na Bolom felt like a house of stories - wooden floors creaking with memory, walls lined with faded photographs of Lacandon Maya faces staring back in silent defiance. The museum was once the home of Frans and Gertrude Blom, explorers turned protectors of indigenous culture. Their mission to document and preserve lives on in the artifacts and books that fill the room.
I spent time in the library, running my fingers over the spines of old maps and handwritten field notes. The black and white portraits of Lacandon elders had a weight to them - remnants of a world that resisted time. In a small courtyard, woven hammocks swayed gently in the breeze, and beyond the gate the city bustled, indifferent to the quiet sanctuary inside.
I sketched an elaborate wooden mask from the collection, its patterns intricate, its expression unreadable. The guide explained that the Lacandon people once roamed the rainforest freely, living apart from colonial rule. Now they are few.
By the time I stepped outside, the drizzle had turned to mist, settling over the red-tiled roofs of the city. I walked back slowly, my mind still in the museum, thinking of the faces in the photographs.
