Honduras.
“It is probably more common in Montana, where I live,” I responded.
“Sí. Montana. I know the state.” “Beautiful Montana. The land of cowboys and Indians.”
“Have you traveled to Montana?” I asked as we walked outside.
“I have never been there, but I have seen photos. We had a man who came to Copán from Montana some fifteen years ago. We called him Johnny. He lived in the village and studied the ruins. When he left, he shared all of his belongings with the local people. The villagers tell stories about him to this day. He has become a legend here. I was happy to call him my friend.”
“What was his name?” I asked.
“I only knew him as Johnny. I called him ‘Johnny de Montana.’” Joaquín accompanied me to the Parque Central, bowed, and took his leave. I stopped at a local pizzeria and bought a bottle of water. I saw a half-dozen English-speaking teachers, who taught at the Mayatan Bilingual School, celebrating a birthday of one of their colleagues. Otherwise, the place was empty. At the gateway to the ruins, the town welcomed a steady flow of foreigners and had come to expect those dollars that visitors brought to the town. It was obvious there were few tourists, but being proclaimed as the answer to a shaman’s vision carried a heavy burden, and I was still troubled by the prophecy. I worried that my presence would be a disappointment to the people, and I didn’t know how to handle this expectation. After lingering for an hour or so, I walked back toward the hotel. The aroma of spiced meats and fresh tortillas floated on the air. A cool, gentle wind blew through the valley. It felt good after the sweltering heat of the day. I returned to my room and wrote in my journal.
At midnight, Teodoro knocked at the door. I opened the door and four gold teeth flashed a smile at me. Throughout my travels, I saw men and women with gold teeth. Gold teeth were a sign of wealth among the ancient Maya and it seemed to be so today, but perhaps the only wealthy man in the village was the dentist.
“Follow me,” Teodoro said. He carried a lantern and a flashlight. A machete was slung over his back. We headed out of town for the short walk toward the ruins. The night was dark. The farther we walked from town, the louder the night became. Night birds fluttered among the trees. An insect drone throbbed from the floor of the jungle and resonated throughout the night air, adding to the eeriness. Teodoro led me to a well-disguised pathway. We stooped and crawled inside the jungle-blanketedpassageway. Once inside, the path opened. Teodoro paused, lit the kerosene lantern, and handed me the flashlight. The path was narrow. The sound of water came up from the river in a low murmur. I remembered that Stephens and Catherwood forded a river following the path their guide opened with a machete, but I was distracted when something brushed my cheek and my thoughts of the adventurous duo vanished. Suddenly, off to the left, I spied two glowing red eyes. Teodoro whispered, “
Balam
,” and I understood it was a jaguar. As we drew closer, it bounded into the forest. He said visual contact of a jaguar was rare and a good sign.
In the darkness I saw a faint light ahead. As we approached, it appeared as a glowing purplish light. At first, I thought someone was in front of us, but when the light divided into several smaller orbs, I realized that it was not another lantern.
“Son las luces de los ancestros,”
Teodoro whispered as he surveyed the area. He said the lights were the old ones—the ancestors. I thought about the unexplained lights that appeared at ceremonies at home. The elders said that they were the spirits of the ancestors.
Once Teodoro was sure that we were alone, he guided me up the steps of a temple at the center of the plaza. There, in the pitch-black darkness, he doused his lantern and leaned back to relax.
“Ahora, debemos esperar,”
he told me quietly. “Now we must wait,” he said. I
“It is probably more common in Montana, where I live,” I responded.
“Sí. Montana. I know the state.” “Beautiful Montana. The land of cowboys and Indians.”
“Have you traveled to Montana?” I asked as we walked outside.
“I have never been there, but I have seen photos. We had a man who came to Copán from Montana some fifteen years ago. We called him Johnny. He lived in the village and studied the ruins. When he left, he shared all of his belongings with the local people. The villagers tell stories about him to this day. He has become a legend here. I was happy to call him my friend.”
“What was his name?” I asked.
“I only knew him as Johnny. I called him ‘Johnny de Montana.’” Joaquín accompanied me to the Parque Central, bowed, and took his leave. I stopped at a local pizzeria and bought a bottle of water. I saw a half-dozen English-speaking teachers, who taught at the Mayatan Bilingual School, celebrating a birthday of one of their colleagues. Otherwise, the place was empty. At the gateway to the ruins, the town welcomed a steady flow of foreigners and had come to expect those dollars that visitors brought to the town. It was obvious there were few tourists, but being proclaimed as the answer to a shaman’s vision carried a heavy burden, and I was still troubled by the prophecy. I worried that my presence would be a disappointment to the people, and I didn’t know how to handle this expectation. After lingering for an hour or so, I walked back toward the hotel. The aroma of spiced meats and fresh tortillas floated on the air. A cool, gentle wind blew through the valley. It felt good after the sweltering heat of the day. I returned to my room and wrote in my journal.
At midnight, Teodoro knocked at the door. I opened the door and four gold teeth flashed a smile at me. Throughout my travels, I saw men and women with gold teeth. Gold teeth were a sign of wealth among the ancient Maya and it seemed to be so today, but perhaps the only wealthy man in the village was the dentist.
“Follow me,” Teodoro said. He carried a lantern and a flashlight. A machete was slung over his back. We headed out of town for the short walk toward the ruins. The night was dark. The farther we walked from town, the louder the night became. Night birds fluttered among the trees. An insect drone throbbed from the floor of the jungle and resonated throughout the night air, adding to the eeriness. Teodoro led me to a well-disguised pathway. We stooped and crawled inside the jungle-blanketedpassageway. Once inside, the path opened. Teodoro paused, lit the kerosene lantern, and handed me the flashlight. The path was narrow. The sound of water came up from the river in a low murmur. I remembered that Stephens and Catherwood forded a river following the path their guide opened with a machete, but I was distracted when something brushed my cheek and my thoughts of the adventurous duo vanished. Suddenly, off to the left, I spied two glowing red eyes. Teodoro whispered, “
Balam
,” and I understood it was a jaguar. As we drew closer, it bounded into the forest. He said visual contact of a jaguar was rare and a good sign.
In the darkness I saw a faint light ahead. As we approached, it appeared as a glowing purplish light. At first, I thought someone was in front of us, but when the light divided into several smaller orbs, I realized that it was not another lantern.
“Son las luces de los ancestros,”
Teodoro whispered as he surveyed the area. He said the lights were the old ones—the ancestors. I thought about the unexplained lights that appeared at ceremonies at home. The elders said that they were the spirits of the ancestors.
Once Teodoro was sure that we were alone, he guided me up the steps of a temple at the center of the plaza. There, in the pitch-black darkness, he doused his lantern and leaned back to relax.
“Ahora, debemos esperar,”
he told me quietly. “Now we must wait,” he said. I
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