Where Adventure Travel Meets the Ghosts of Human Sacrifice — Actun Tunichil Muknal Cave

When thinking of Belize, you might dream of Caribbean islands, palm tree-strewn beaches, and world-class snorkeling, and you’d be right, but you might just forget to take a trip to the spiritual underworld of the ancient Mayan and the resting place of sacrifical victims….

Be brave enough to leave the coast and head inland to the town of San Ignacio. Here lies an incredible Belizean trip highlight: the Actun Tunichil Muknal Cave (commonly shortened to the ATM Cave).

History buffs will delight in this archaeological treasure trove, adrenaline junkies will get their heart rate up spelunking to reach these treasures, and anyone with a touch of morbid curiosity will get a kick out of the horror stories lurking in dark corners.

Visiting the ATM Cave is not for the faint of heart. You’ll need to be physically fit and comfortable climbing, swimming, and crawling through sometimes tight spaces. But if you’re up for a challenge, you’ll be rewarded with an adventure that you’ll never forget!

You’ll notice that this post doesn’t include any original photographs. This is because cameras are not permitted. Unfortunately, in the past, tourists have damaged some artifacts by dropping their cameras on them, including breaking a skull!

You are actually not allowed to bring anything at all, just the clothes on your back, which is kind of exciting in itself.

First up was a short hike to the cave itself. Not even five minutes into the walk, and we were swimming across a flowing river, pulling ourselves along a rope. Soaking wet, we walked on, dripping on the forest floor on the other side. We had only just dried off when it was time to do it again, and then one last time for good measure. Three rivers crossed. The adventure begins.

The final plunge was into the cave itself, wading through the water so intensely freezing, it took your breath away, only to be replaced with a canine-like yelp.

There’s something truly both terrifying and thrilling about treading through this dark abyss. I was fully focused on each trembling step, my headlamp looking down at my feet as we scrambled, slipped, swam, and waded through the darkness. I have never been so mindful of my foot placement, one toe, ball, or heel at a time.

At times scrambling and climbing became intense, and I had a lot more to focus on than just my feet. My fingers and forearms had to work too.

There were pockets of claustrophobic tightness where we had to tilt our heads and contort our bodies to fit through, dipping our shoulders below the rocks and the water. We emerged in a narrow tunnel of deep, fast-moving water. We were instructed to wedge our backs against the cave wall on one side and press our feet against the opposite wall to fight the current. We stepped sideways slowly crablike against the flow, trying to avoid the intrusive mental image of being swept away to God knows where.

As if this wasn’t already scary enough, I had to face my lifelong enemy to reach the upper dry chambers: heights. Climbing wobbling iron ladders with pieces missing up cliff-like faces, I hyperventilated all the way up.

Up here, we had to take off our shoes to avoid getting anything wet and damaged, stepping only where we were told to.

Here, another adventure began through storytelling. Our wonderful guide lit up as he regaled us with tales of the Mayans and their Gods, their beliefs, their lives, and ultimately their heinous acts of cruelty committed right here, in these very caves, in this very chamber.

Tales of human sacrifice. Of prisoners dragged up here screaming. With the difficulty of reaching this point, unhindered with a head torch and a guide, I couldn’t comprehend the thought of carrying another human being along the way we had just traveled; I had barely carried myself.

He told us not to believe the fairytale that it was an honor to be sacrificed, and that people were happy to do it. No. They were captured, bound, and dragged here. They were frightened. It was not suicide; it was murder.

We saw the evidence: a perfectly preserved skeleton with a dislodged, broken jaw and a snapped spine, apparently from the removal of his heart.

Another skeleton of a young boy around 9 years old with a strange, deformed alien-like skull created from the pressure of two wooden boards strapped to the front and back of his head to compress it. A common procedure for sacrificial victims.

Children were sadly common victims, even babies, which shocked me.

And what surprised me was the fact that the victims were the offspring of those in high positions in society, the rich and the powerful. He explained this to us in laymen’s terms: if you are offering a gift to the Gods, then you offer them the best.

The shaman chose here as a sacrificial place because they saw caves as the entrance to the underworld, and this one, in particular, was responsible for the Godly gift of rain. The sacrifices were to barter for rain in times of drought and famine.

Our guide showed us the different Gods through his tattoos, which I found both charming and really cool. He was as excited as a child telling a horror story around a campfire, his passion burning as bright as the fire.

Real artifacts of this Mayan underground church, pots, plates, daggers, weapons, and human bones surrounded us. A living, breathing museum. I have experienced nothing like it before and will forever try to convince other people to go because it’s truly a journey into the underworld of the Mayan rain Gods, haunted by souls torn away from the earth too soon to bow their heads for rain and the life of those left behind.

Thank you for reading! Hearts and tips are always welcome and your support is very much appreciated.

This story was originally published on Medium

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