“What is important is what you think,” I replied.
“I believe that he was from the stars. I have no proof, but there has been no similar discovery, and he was not dressed as any human I have ever seen. I really regret giving him to the scientists. They only gave us two dollars. But in those days, we were rich.”
“Are there stories in the mountains about space aliens?” I asked.
“The wise men told stories when I was a boy about a small race of men who visited Earth and sometimes lived in the mountains for weeks at a time. They bothered no one, and the people left them alone. They could be seen at times, but they avoided the people. They came in silver disks that spit fire and they wore silver suits. I think our discovery was of one who died on one of those visits. They buried him in the cave, and we disturbed his grave site. I will always be haunted by that idea.”
“Did you ever tell your elders about your discovery?” I asked.
“No. We were afraid. I think we always knew what we did was wrong. We never hunted for artifacts after that. Our conscience would not let us. For some reason, I think we knew we had given up an important part of our history. Only the scientists who took it know the truth and they are not talking. Your government probably knows, too. I think our government knows, but they do not want to admit it to us simple people, but our people know far more than the governments about the men from the stars.”
When I said goodbye to Luis, he promised that, on my next visit, he would tell me more about the men from the stars but, for now, he had a date with his granddaughter, who was making his lunch.
Unfortunately, Luis and I never kept that date. On my next trip to Honduras, Luis had passed. Still, I often think of him. He carried the guilt of what he had done for many decades, but I think he is correct: There are government men who know about the silver man from the stars. They are just not talking about it.
Chapter 10
An Encounter With the Old Ones
Before 1841, few people knew of the Copán Ruinas. In that year, John L. Stephens and Frederick Catherwood published their book Incidents of Travel in Central America, Chiapas, and Yucatán. The duo stayed for thirteen days, Stephens clearing the site and Catherwood drawing the ancient monuments. At the end of two weeks, Stephens left for Guatemala. Catherwood remained alone at the site and continued to record the massive city on paper. Before Stephens left Copán, he purchased the land where the Maya City stood from a local farmer for $50. At the time, Stephens thought he had purchased the place outright, but indications are that the farmer sold him the right to continue to excavate and record the site. In any case, the farmer believed it to be a good deal, as the local people and the Catholic priest considered it a “bad place” filled with supernatural events and strange stones and pagan idols.
For the next century, Copán was rarely visited by travelers. In 1968, however, Swiss author Erich von Däniken published the controversial book Chariots of the Gods, which became a bestseller in the United States and Europe. Von Däniken claimed that ancient astronauts wearing space helmets were carved on stelae (tall, sculpted, stone monument shafts) at the Maya city of Copán. He argued that spacecraft landed long before modern humanity peopled Earth, and that alien astronauts taught the Maya about astronomy and architecture. He believed aliens helped the Maya build their cities and the Maya rulers were the descendants of extraterrestrials.
In this chapter you will experience an astonishing, personal event of the first and third kind that happened at Copán, which would make a skeptic a believer.
I had been in Copán, Honduras, for a week when a housekeeper approached me quietly and said, “They say you are indigena.” I looked at the lady who stood before me. She toyed with the hem of her apron and avoided eye contact. Because Copán is so small, news travels quickly from person to person, and after a few days at the hotel, many of the people in town knew who I was, even though I had never met them.
“Sí,” I replied. “USA indigena.”
She nodded, accepting my response. She was a short, stout, middle-aged woman wearing the Maya-inspired uniform required by the hotel owners. Her black braided hair embraced her weathered face. I had seen hundreds of women like her since I left Montana—women who were overworked and underpaid and probably the only source of income for their families.
“If you go to the ruins at night, you might see the old ones,” she said. “Our priest said you must be indigena or they will not show up.” Shocked by her disclosure and trying not to appear too taken aback, I remained silent and attentive. “Ellos solo aparecen de noche,” she said suggesting they (the ancestors) only appear at night. “Solo los indígenas los han visto,” she continued, indicating that only indigenous people have seen the ancestors.
“Who are the old ones?” She looked confused as I continued. “Are the ancestors… spirits?”
“They are the old ones. The gods. They appear in many forms.”
“Please explain.”
“Sometimes they come from the sky. Sometimes they come from the jungle. Sometimes they come as lights. I tell you these things because you are indigena. My boss told me you are indigena and that you are an important lady. A smart lady. Our village priest said you would come.”
“Please sit,” I said, offering her space on the bed where I sat, but she continued to stand.
“Our priest told us weeks ago that you would come. He said that after you come, there will be richness. He said you were here for a good purpose, and that we must share with you the secrets of the old ones. It is the first time he has chosen anyone from the outside to learn our secrets.” She got up and opened the door.
“Please wait,” I said. “What do you mean the village priest told you that I will be coming? Do you mean the Catholic priest?”
“No, no. No,” she said. “I come from a village in the mountains. It is not too far from Copán Ruinas, but traveling there is very difficult. We have no Catholic priest in my village.” She pulled back the curtain and looked around the courtyard outside. “I think you say, shaman. While most of the people in Copán are Catholic, we still follow our old ways in the villages. Our priest had a vision. He said that an indigena woman will come from el norte. She will be kind and smart. She will love the people so much the gods will make the tourists come, and we will have prosperous [sic] again. The tourists will grow.”
“Does your priest believe I am that woman?” I asked.
“Everyone in our village believes; even some of my relatives in Copán Ruinas believe, too. You are an indigena woman. You come from the North. You give presents to the children and tips to the waiters. You have a good heart. Everyone says so. My boss said that you are famous person in the USA.” As she spoke, I grew more uncomfortable.
“I am not a famous person,” I said. “I am a teacher, a professor.”
“Tonight, be ready at midnight. My brother, Teodoro, will come for you. He will lead you into the ancient city. There, if you are the woman sent by the gods, you will see the ancients.”
“How much does your brother charge for taking me to the ruins tonight?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Nada,” she replied. At the moment I was not sure how to respond. She waited for my response. It was obvious the silence between us had become awkward.
“I will wait for Teodoro,” I said.
“He will come around midnight.”
I found a waiter in the courtyard and asked him to bring some ice to my room. I returned to my air-conditioned space and picked up Stephens’s book, reviewing his comments about Copán. I spent the afternoon entering my perceptions and descriptions of the site into my computer, but I could not escape the prophecy of the village holy man. I was familiar with the power of practicing shamans that existed in the indigenous world. I did not take her words lightly. I tried to lose myself in the words of Stephens, but the book only managed to put me to sleep. I woke when loud voices outside my room startled me. A family with three small children had checked into the room next door.
I took a quick shower, dressed in a pair ofjeans, and pulled a long-sleeved shirt over my tank top. I unzipped the front pocket of my suitcase and pulled out my cowboy boots. My friend Jan suggested I leave my cowboy boots at home. That night I was glad I brought them.
I rolled up the sleeves on my shirt, wound my wet hair into a bun, secured it, and walked out into the night air. I selected a table near the open courtyard for dinner. I looked around the courtyard. A lone, well-dressed man, wearing a white cowboy hat and intricately decorated Western boots, caught my eye and smiled. He was looking at my cowboy boots.
“Eat your heart out, Jan,” I whispered to myself as I looked over the menu. After a dinner of pollo sudado, a mixture of chicken with potatoes in a tomato sauce, I decided to take a walk. As I got up to leave, the handsome stranger approached, bowed, and kissed my hand.
“Joaquín Lucio at your service, Señora.”
“I am pleased to meet you.”
He smiled and then pointed to my cowboy boots. “It is not often I see a woman wearing cowboy boots. It is not a common sight in 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-blanketed passageway. 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 leaned back and looked upward toward the heavens. Overhead the a three-quarter moon traveled across the sky. The intolerable white heat of the day turned into a cool, dark black mystery set with millions of tiny stars. Under these flashing jewels, the night critters came. Bats dipped and swirled overhead while, below, various unknown creatures scurried among the ancient buildings. Neither of us spoke for the next three hours.
When I felt myself dosing off, it happened. “They are here,” Teodoro whispered. Then I saw them. Small balls of light flickered around the ancient plaza and playfully danced back and forth. As I sat there transfixed by the scene unfolding in front of me, one light broke off from its gliding antics and moved in front of me. The other lights floated into formation behind him. They hovered there, and then disappeared on the night air. “Usted es una de nosotros,” Teodoro said. “You are one of us.”
I sat speechless, thinking about what I had seen. While I was lost in thought, dawn came and sunlight flooded the plaza. Suddenly a large, circular, rotating wheel-like craft appeared overhead. I watched speechless as the revolving wheel disappeared toward the east, and the sun appeared in its saffron glory. I squinted my eyes and looked in the direction of the sun, but the craft was gone. The morning mist lifted, revealing the ancient city, but there was no further sign of the flying, gyrating wheel that hovered, just momentarily, over the spot where the balls of light appeared. I looked at Teodoro. He said it was time to go. I followed him blindly, retracing our steps through the jungle but excited and unsure about what had just happened.
“Teodoro, did you see the spacecraft—the UFO?” I asked.
“Sí. The old ones, the ancestors come from the sky. It has been a long time since we saw them. Our priest said you had the power to bring them back to us.”
“Teodoro, I have no power. I am a university professor.”
“The priest said your visit will restore balance. It had to be a woman from el norte who was unselfish, kind, and good. You are that woman.”
“I’m not sure I’m the one the shaman prophesized,” I said.
“Oh sí. You are the one. If not, why did the old ones come?”
“Le gustaría regresar esta noche al sitio?” Teodoro asked me if I wanted to return to the site again at midnight. When I told him I was leaving within the hour, I saw his surprise. I explained that a driver was coming for me. When we reached Copán Ruinas, he bowed and shook my hand. “Thank you, Señora. The ancestors have returned because of you. Now my village will prosperous (sic) again.”
I walked back to the hotel alone. It was already hot. I imagined the sun a monster swallowing the sky. There were no clouds in the sky, just the white-hot blaze that made me sweat from every pore in my body. I wanted to lock myself in my room, take a cold shower, and write about what I had seen, but when I reached the hotel, Joaquín approached me. Dressed in his black jacket and cowboy hat, he opened his coat, revealing a Montana State University Bobcats t-shirt.
“I wear in your honor, Señora,” he said. “Remember I told you about Johnny de Montana who gave away his clothes to the people? He gave me this t-shirt. When you told me you were from the University of Montana, I wore for you.” I did not
correct him. It was not the first time that Montana State and the University of Montana were regarded as one. Although the Cats and the Grizzlies might not approve, the two universities were regularly confused outside the state.
“I have a t-shirt like that one at home,” I declared as he walked me to the main counter of the hotel.
“By the way, Doctora, your driver is waiting for you.” He motioned for a man wearing a white cowboy hat and jeans to come forward. The driver wore a broad smile with the whitest teeth I had ever seen. His straight black hair touched the collar of his white, starched, short-sleeved shirt. He bowed slightly as he was introduced. He smelled of cinnamon. “This is Mateo Huerta Ríos. He is the best driver and guide in all of Honduras and Guatemala. I would trust my sister with him; my mother, too. He will take good care of you in Guatemala. In fact, he is Honduran by birth, but he lives in Guatemala. He also speaks perfect English. He is smart, just like the Doctora.” I held out my hand and greeted the stranger I had chosen via e-mails and telephone calls to be my guide, teacher, and driver for the next two weeks.
“I am pleased to meet you, Mateo.” He smiled and bowed slightly. He was different than what I had imagined. Though he could have passed for much younger except for the sprinkling of white hairs around his ears, he assured me that he held a master’s degree in anthropology and history and that he had been born the year that John Kennedy was elected president. His degrees had given him the opportunity to be a headmaster and teacher at one of the secondary schools in Guatemala. During the summers and holidays he drove tourists to earn extra income. He had two children who were married and two at the university. He expected to be a grandfather before the new year. Wearing a white cowboy hat and Western boots, he stood close to 6 feet tall. His broad shoulders placed strain on the white short-sleeved shirt, making him appear more like a working cowboy than an intellectual. I chose him for his knowledge about Stephens and Catherwood and their journey through Guatemala and Honduras, and for his admitted multiple encounters with UFOs. I had talked with him on the phone, and after several e-mails I decided he was the perfect driver for me on my expedition; he was more than pleased to be my escort.
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