There is a biting chill in the morning air which nips at his toes through the weave in his sandals. His stomach, however, is still warm from the drink of hot cacao and honey that he had heated over an open fire. During the night he had taken shelter in a grove of huamuchil trees that now seem to vibrate from a faint pulsating drumbeat originating in the west. In that direction, just over a low hill of terraced farming plots, the traveler can make out tall poles stretching toward the last of the …