Healing comes in many forms, with forgiveness at its foundation.  Itzam-Na and the sun god Kinich Kak Mo must have forgiven this and more, for it was also in Izamal that Friar Diego de Landa burned all the Mayan texts he could find, then spent the rest of his life regretting his actions.

It is surely a result of this turbulence, that a spiritual reconciliation of sorts has taken place – there is, in this somewhat sleepy town, an abiding peace, and a strange energy, the source of which is hard to  locate.

For all the efforts of the Spanish, Catholicism has, as in many other places in Mexico, seamlessly blended with indigenous beliefs, and it is at this intersection that the legend of the “Cristo Negro” was born.

For some, he represents the worker, or the native, for others, he might be a symbol of what it means to be a “mestizo.” Whatever the interpretation, just as there is no doubt that the Virgin of Guadalupe, the Virgin Mary, and this town's own Virgin of Izamal share many of the same qualities, there is no doubt that a figure projecting an all-encompassing forgiveness for human weakness has a universal appeal.

We have only a few hours in hand, but they are rich with impressions, a whirlwind of stolen moments on foot, and quick glimpses across the cobblestones from the driver's seat of a “calesa,” the town's signature horse-drawn carriages.

Couples flirt in the shade near the ruins of Hun Pik Tok, grandmother hobbles along with a long fruit-picking pole to the tangerine tree in her backyard, faded photographs and locks of hair are tucked into a wooden picture frame, hundreds of roses made into arrangements wait to be moved into position at the convent, boys finish their work in the dry yellow grass by an enormous skein of firecracker fuses, and wait for the moment they can wield their lighters.

And this they do, the town beginning many days of October festival that very night, leading up to Hanal Pixan, Yucatan's Day of the Dead. Fireworks light up the darkness, from our last stop all the way at the edge of town, signaling the way for a procession that started in nearby Sitilpech at 5:00 AM.

Twelve hours later, after the 5:00 PM mass at Capilla de San Jose, hundreds of devotees, linked hand-in-hand to protect the image, round the corner into Izamal's "zocalo," with brass band and drums, flickering candles burning hands in the evening breeze.

In the legend, two indigenous brothers came to town, and through their hard work and attentiveness to the church, earned the great respect of both the locals and the Franciscans. Over the years, there were mysterious circumstances, though, like unexplained disappearances, where one would be gone for a time, the other appearing at will.

I had come upon the “Cristo Negro” by chance, all alone, around 4:00 PM, in an alcove on the left, just inside the great wooden doors of San Antonio de Padua's main entrance. Without knowing what the order of events was, I took a few moments to photograph the cross and its otherworldly companion.

What I couldn't have known is that the Black Christ had also been on the other side of town all day, under watchful eyes, and I would later see him borne into the main square on the shoulders of an adoring crowd that evening.

How was this simultaneous appearance possible? Maybe there are two figures. Maybe not. Part of me doesn't really want to know the answer. But I had my moment of peace at 4:00 PM, and if you ask any of the people in the procession today, I likely had my miracle, too.

Jay Dunn, Izamal, Yucatan

For a beautiful slideshow of all the images in this photo-essay, go to http://bit.ly/pxO9ml

Please note: As a Contributor to the Mexico Today Program, I am being compensated for my work in creating and managing content. All photographs and essays are strictly my own.

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