I am standing in the ancient ruin of Coba, at the foot of the tallest pyramid in the Yucatan Peninsula. It is hot and humid, the clouds above threaten rain, and I am afraid of heights. Nonetheless, I steel myself to scale all 138 feet of Nohoch Mul, up 120 limestone steps much too steep for my 5'1" frame.

My husband, who is both taller and more fearless, tackles the climb at a bold clip, but I crawl up slowly, wondering why in the hell people as short as the Maya would build such ambitious stairs, and why I left the indulgences of my five-diamond hotel - the treetop spa suite, the swim-up bar at the pool - to follow in their footsteps.

But I am here for more than luxury; I have come to see - amid the explosive upscale development that is consuming Mexico's Caribbean coastline - if anything is left of the authentic Maya world, or if it has been distorted into a caricature of a once-proud culture. So I climb. And climb. And then I see. Looking out across the vast expanse of jungle, I understand why the Maya built temples like this one, built them high and built them steep, crafting with the pain of intense manual labor a stairway to the sky world. In the scrubby, flat land that is the Yucatán, it is important to have a place like this, a place where the ground recedes and the heavens open and you can feel the power of standing at the top of your world. And in the booming tourist development that is the Rivera Maya, it is important to have a place like Coba, a place that reminds you why you came here.

It's a thrill of discovery I experience again and again, somewhat to my surprise. On paper, Riviera Maya - with its miles of stunning coastline, high-end resorts, quaint little beach towns - looks like every other sun-and-sand destination. It's not. Yes, it's a burgeoning hot spot, but one that seeks to offer more than just the promise of a good time. Riviera Maya is banking its cachet on the ghost of civilization past.

Call it the Mayas' revenge. When the Spanish arrived in the 16th century they found a thriving civilization. Unimpressed by the locals' accomplishments - the great stone cities, an intricate calendar system, a complex written language - they set about conquering everything in sight. They nearly succeeded, but the Maya resisted most ingeniously: They adapted. Over the ensuing 400 years they embraced Christianity, learned Spanish, and integrated the ways of their old life into their new one. Now, their time-honored traditions are being appreciated anew, mainly by developers seeing gold in tourism's new black, in which the indigenous culture doesn't simply weather development's onslaught, it inspires it.

One place that is embracing this philosophy wholeheartedly is Mayakoba, an innovative resort designed to attract a new breed of traveler by marrying extreme luxury with preservation of the environment, both cultural and physical. There are no fake pyramids here, no glaring signage that can be seen from a low orbit - just natural materials used in harmony with the native landscape, which the developers preserved through socoleo, a Maya conservation technique that uses plant husbandry to maintain the ecosystem's natural balance. Each of the resort's upscale properties - Banyan Tree, Fairmont, Rosewood, Viceroy - nods to the Maya aesthetic, shunning looming beachfront monoliths for low-slung, intimate buildings tucked among the mangroves on Mayakoba's 590 acres.

The effect is magical. Driving past the elegantly understated entrance, we find ourselves winding around a cobbled road, the sounds of the modern world muted by the lush vegetation rising on either side. The transition into the Fairmont proper is seamless. Rather than the tightly manicured landscaping typical of upscale hotels, the flora is free-flowing, almost opulent in its wildness, and the Maya influence is palpable in many ways: the palapa roofs dotting the landscape, the liberal use of wood and stone, the warm, nature-inspired palette.

It is tempting to stay on property, relaxing in the soaking tub in our jungle casita or being pampered at the Willow Stream Spa, but the area's history begs to be explored, and so we rouse ourselves at the crack of dawn for the requisite pilgrimage to Chichén Itzá. Though not part of the Riviera Maya - it is some three hours inland - it is the most famous of Mexico's Maya ruins, and a popular day trip. We start at the ball court, where our guide, Javier, informs us that contrary to popular belief the losers were not sacrificed after the match - the winners were, because "you only want to give the gods the best, yes?" At the Temple of the Jaguars he pulls a small mirror out of his pocket - "Maya laser," he says, grinning, - and uses the pinpoint of reflected light to show us the detail within: intricately carved frescoes, patches of ancient paint still visible on the wall.

We see all the highlights: the famed pyramid of Kukulcan, known as El Castillo ("Not its Maya name," Javier says dismissively); El Caracol, the astronomical observatory with its crumbling dome; the complex known as the Nunnery, which was clearly never a nunnery. All the while Javier explains not just the historical significance of each site, but the beliefs of those who lived here and how they have been re-imagined from one generation to the next, impressing on us the Mayas' custom of continually rebuilding their world. He concludes our tour by proclaiming with fierce pride, "The Maya culture is still alive; we still have the Maya blood."

Those words echo in my head even as nightfall finds us meandering along the Fairmont's broad stone paths, still caught up in history's spell. It is a testament to the power of a well-executed design: Mayakoba is unmistakably luxurious, Chichén Itzá is not; but the quiet energy of both places, the harmonious integration of the natural and the manmade, the present and the past, feel very much the same.

Long before there was a Riviera Maya or a Playa del Carmen, there was Cobá, a pinnacle of development, Maya style. A massive city of at least 50,000, it was the nexus of a network of sacbeob, limestone-paved roads extending to other Maya cities as far as 60 miles away. We have come here on a daylong expedition run by Alltournative, a company built on the altar of sustainable tourism that promises an "unforgettable natural-cultural and adventure" experience. Our guide on this trip is Riaz, a free spirit with Maya roots and a love of adventure. (When I ask him which ruin is his favorite, he replies, "any place I need a machete to get to.")

Unlike Chichén Itzá, Cobá is largely unexcavated - less than 10 percent has been reclaimed from the jungle. We rent bicycles and set out on an ancient sacbe to explore the site and climb Nohoch Mul. As we regroup after the great ascent, the mystery of the giant steps is solved when one of our number demands to know, "If the Mayas were so short, why are all the steps so damn tall?" By design, as it turns out: To climb the temple was to enter the sky world, home of the gods; steep stairs forced those going up to assume a humble posture. Just like that, my cowardly crawl becomes an act of reverence.

At the Maya village of Chimuch we partake in a sacred ritual, a purification ceremony followed by a swim in a cenote. For this, Riaz leads us to the mouth of a cave and another precipitous climb, this one down a slippery wooden ladder. At the bottom, a rock ledge overlooks a deep, clear pool illuminated by sunlight streaming through the cave's mouth. "Just jump in," Riaz advises, so we do. The water is cold, and though I'm no fonder of the dark than I am of heights, I find the experience oddly comforting. As I paddle around contemplating the weird shapes a millennium's worth of trickling water has carved into the cave's limestone walls, I can see why the Maya considered these places sacred: Descending from a world that is flat and hot and bright into one that is cool and dark and layered with rock and water seems like entering another dimension.

On the ride back to civilization Riaz shares a bit of family history, telling me how his grandmother was so ashamed of her Maya tongue that his father had to teach himself the language, how his generation is now determined to embrace its heritage. It seems a fitting conclusion to the day to pull into a resort that echoes this ideal, albeit one that lets us trade the hot, sweaty jungle for a stone-and-glass shower and a gourmet meal.

Another day, another ruin, and as we go about touring the coastal city of Tulum I no longer worry that these ancient places have been Disneyfied. Our guide, Julia — a boisterous archaeologist with a canary-yellow pith helmet and a near-encyclopedic knowledge of things Maya — points out one intriguing detail after another: the red handprints on the Temple of the Frescoes, the low entrances that require a bow to enter, and everywhere, seemingly, the mysterious Figure of the Descending God. The site is neat and compact, the buildings roped off to protect them from damage. As Julia valiantly regales us with a career's worth of information about Mexico's pre-Hispanic culture, the barriers remind me that, although Riviera Maya was built partly on an ideal and partly on the trend of eco- and cultural tourism, most importantly it was built according to tough governmental restrictions demanding responsible development. This Maya thing is not just a gimmick, it's the law.

It's also good business for places like the rustic EcoTulum Resort and its Maya Spa, which specializes in traditional treatments. I've come for the signature Mayan Bath, but no sooner do I reach the beachfront open-air tub than a chilly rain begins to fall. "Welcome to the jungle," says my therapist, and so we agree to substitute the Mayan Clay Massage. As I lie under a palapa, smeared head to toe with thick ochre goo, the jungle's stillness envelops me and I envision the golden age of the Maya empire. In my mind's eye I see the imperious chiefs with their elaborate plumed headdresses and jaguar robes, the astronomers huddled together on stone platforms deciphering the night skies, the pitched fury of the ballplayers competing for the right to die. Rarely do I find myself completely lost in a moment like this, and I never want it to end. It is a very Maya sentiment - their belief in the afterlife, their practice of building one pyramid on top of another, their survival through centuries of oppression - all point to a culture that never wants to end either.

But our journey, at least, must end, and so we leave the jungle one last time, bound for the Mandarin Oriental, our final stop. It is a lavish conclusion to our stay. We pull up to a massive open-air lobby crowned by an equally massive palapa roof and are immediately attended to by staff in crisp white uniforms, who unfailingly greet us by name every time they see us afterward. As at Mayakoba, the developers took great care to maintain the native mangrove swamp, resulting in a landscape that is not only beautifully wild but intensely private - although there is only one path from the beach to the lobby, we rarely encounter other guests. It almost seems as though the Mandarin is all ours.

After a night of sublime luxury in our beachfront casita - we particularly enjoy the rooftop infinity pool - I indulge in the Mayan Tzolkin Ritual at the spa, two hours of pure bliss that leaves me with a sense of harmony and well-being.

Our last night brings a sumptuous meal at Ambar, the resort's signature restaurant, then one final dip in the pool. As we gaze up at the stars, listening to the natural lullaby of the wind and the surf, I reflect on the people we have met and the places we have seen, the echoing energy of a civilization that is gone but not lost, the resurgence of a culture that has evolved over 3,000 years. By and large, Riviera Maya is succeeding in its quest to become a destination that satisfies both the craving for luxury and the yearning for soul.

Even the conquistadors would be impressed.

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