Sizing it up - 7/10/06
I am swayed easily. This has always been the case. On one side, this is good, for like a child I have no natural prejudices. Or rather a few, secretly harbored, deeply held.
Today I am not on the side of the underdogs. The pyramid project in Visoko has incurred my cynicism, which is like poison to a hope like this which relies so deeply on blind faith. Let me take you through my introduction to this project and see if I am unfair.
Nancy is a 24-year-old Mediterranean beauty, smart, fiery, direct. She is an archaeologist on Mjeseca, the Pyramid of the Moon – the best on this project, the worst on some others, to hear her tell it. “This is because there is no method. I am the only one with a method. They ask me, ‘Nan-cy, why don’t you believe in pyramids?’ I am always the bad guy, because I believe in science. This is why I am leaving.”
We got acquainted over drinks the night before, and I listened to her thoughts. She said she has no friends here, but I could tell what she really meant was she has no allies. She sounded embarrassed to have supported this project against better judgments. I listened to her arguments and complaints, and my great hopes were suddenly tempered.
We are at the foot of the mountain, meeting some of her colleagues. It rained the whole night before, but the local workers still chip away at the hillside. I stand around waiting for someone to tell me what to do. Nancy is only too glad to oblige: “You want the tour? Okay, then sit down. The tour starts with you sitting down.”
(My tai chi teacher once told me the pyramid is the most resilient structure in nature. However, in my pocket, the isosceles edges of my hotel keychain poke uncomfortably through the fabric.)
Nancy smokes a cigarette. I don’t smoke with her or much at all – within a week I will smoke a pack every couple days. The few people with us joke a bit under cloth overhang, I answer questions about my former life in New York and glance over at workmen swinging pickaxes and laughing crudely. She takes a few more puffs and tosses it in the mud. She says, “C’mon!”
The workmen stop for a minute as Nancy and I edge single-file into their square. “Zdravo!” Nancy says in loud, brusque Bosnian, “Kako si?” The night before, she told me this was a rare greeting for these workers to receive, proof of her good mood. “Dobro!” they say with happy force.
Walking past, we step into the first exposed section of the pyramid. It’s impressive, these mostly uniform rows of sloping, golden bricks. It’s too patterned to be the result of nature’s whims.
“When I first came here, I thought this has to be man-made. I don’t believe in pyramids, but I thought maybe this is an old Roman road. See the slope, how one side goes downward into the hill.
“People wouldn’t build a pyramid like this. I kept on looking for something.
“I was working fifteen hours a day, harder than anyone here.” The workmen are taking a break now, leaning on their shovels, smoking and laughing.
“I found a nail on the site where I was working [site 12, Moon, a structure first publicly speculated to be a possible tomb or entrance to the pyramid] right when I started, a couple of inches into the ground. Okay, it was near the surface, but it was in situ. Everyone said it must have been from the workers. I knew what it meant but I kept digging.
“Then [Italian geologist Dario] Andretta came. He showed me where the tiles continue,” she points to an unexposed strata with jagged stone edges, “in the hill. There are three levels right here. No one would build something like this, layer upon layer. It would be too much work.
“I kept digging. I just wanted to figure this out, whatever it is. The blocks on this square are so uneven, the workmanship is so poor. Eventually I found six or seven nails, four feet into the ground. I excavated 5 cm by 5 cm, recording everything so no one could tell me they were from the workers. Maybe it’s from WWII, it’s probably not even that old.
“I stopped digging.”
We're now in square 12, Nancy’s square. It looks abandoned, tarp hanging low in the muddy earth that fills the pit. Nancy has no problem jumping in, pointing to the places where she found nails. I watch, perched on wet ground and trying not to slip, from the high edge of the square.
She takes me up the hill, past several less remarkable sites. “Look at this, all shit!” I nod agreement. It’s not that I am making a sound judgment here; I have a hard time disbelieving such conviction.
<<<>>>
I hear things from both sides, evidence for and against the existence of these pyramids. I try to look in their eyes, to measure the logic in their tone. But the most convincing evidence most have for themselves is a feeling. And I can’t trust other people’s feelings.
Nancy tells me, “Archaeology is the search for facts, not truth,” one morning over coffee. I think she’s right. What does context matter when there’s nothing to frame?
Today I am not on the side of the underdogs. The pyramid project in Visoko has incurred my cynicism, which is like poison to a hope like this which relies so deeply on blind faith. Let me take you through my introduction to this project and see if I am unfair.
Nancy is a 24-year-old Mediterranean beauty, smart, fiery, direct. She is an archaeologist on Mjeseca, the Pyramid of the Moon – the best on this project, the worst on some others, to hear her tell it. “This is because there is no method. I am the only one with a method. They ask me, ‘Nan-cy, why don’t you believe in pyramids?’ I am always the bad guy, because I believe in science. This is why I am leaving.”
We got acquainted over drinks the night before, and I listened to her thoughts. She said she has no friends here, but I could tell what she really meant was she has no allies. She sounded embarrassed to have supported this project against better judgments. I listened to her arguments and complaints, and my great hopes were suddenly tempered.
We are at the foot of the mountain, meeting some of her colleagues. It rained the whole night before, but the local workers still chip away at the hillside. I stand around waiting for someone to tell me what to do. Nancy is only too glad to oblige: “You want the tour? Okay, then sit down. The tour starts with you sitting down.”
(My tai chi teacher once told me the pyramid is the most resilient structure in nature. However, in my pocket, the isosceles edges of my hotel keychain poke uncomfortably through the fabric.)
Nancy smokes a cigarette. I don’t smoke with her or much at all – within a week I will smoke a pack every couple days. The few people with us joke a bit under cloth overhang, I answer questions about my former life in New York and glance over at workmen swinging pickaxes and laughing crudely. She takes a few more puffs and tosses it in the mud. She says, “C’mon!”
The workmen stop for a minute as Nancy and I edge single-file into their square. “Zdravo!” Nancy says in loud, brusque Bosnian, “Kako si?” The night before, she told me this was a rare greeting for these workers to receive, proof of her good mood. “Dobro!” they say with happy force.
Walking past, we step into the first exposed section of the pyramid. It’s impressive, these mostly uniform rows of sloping, golden bricks. It’s too patterned to be the result of nature’s whims.
“When I first came here, I thought this has to be man-made. I don’t believe in pyramids, but I thought maybe this is an old Roman road. See the slope, how one side goes downward into the hill.
“People wouldn’t build a pyramid like this. I kept on looking for something.
“I was working fifteen hours a day, harder than anyone here.” The workmen are taking a break now, leaning on their shovels, smoking and laughing.
“I found a nail on the site where I was working [site 12, Moon, a structure first publicly speculated to be a possible tomb or entrance to the pyramid] right when I started, a couple of inches into the ground. Okay, it was near the surface, but it was in situ. Everyone said it must have been from the workers. I knew what it meant but I kept digging.
“Then [Italian geologist Dario] Andretta came. He showed me where the tiles continue,” she points to an unexposed strata with jagged stone edges, “in the hill. There are three levels right here. No one would build something like this, layer upon layer. It would be too much work.
“I kept digging. I just wanted to figure this out, whatever it is. The blocks on this square are so uneven, the workmanship is so poor. Eventually I found six or seven nails, four feet into the ground. I excavated 5 cm by 5 cm, recording everything so no one could tell me they were from the workers. Maybe it’s from WWII, it’s probably not even that old.
“I stopped digging.”
We're now in square 12, Nancy’s square. It looks abandoned, tarp hanging low in the muddy earth that fills the pit. Nancy has no problem jumping in, pointing to the places where she found nails. I watch, perched on wet ground and trying not to slip, from the high edge of the square.
She takes me up the hill, past several less remarkable sites. “Look at this, all shit!” I nod agreement. It’s not that I am making a sound judgment here; I have a hard time disbelieving such conviction.
<<<>>>
I hear things from both sides, evidence for and against the existence of these pyramids. I try to look in their eyes, to measure the logic in their tone. But the most convincing evidence most have for themselves is a feeling. And I can’t trust other people’s feelings.
Nancy tells me, “Archaeology is the search for facts, not truth,” one morning over coffee. I think she’s right. What does context matter when there’s nothing to frame?
posted by Ed Weinberg at 5:27 PM
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