Mayan Revenge: A Not So Settling Experience

A view over the ruins looking at mountains in the Copan Valley

A well framed mountain view while standing
outside of a gas station in Guatemala.

When I arrived in the small village of Copan Ruinas, my insides were gurgling with a fury. Although we had stopped for snacks along the way, Guatemalan gas station food was not exactly the sustenance my stomach was hoping for that day. We arrived at the Hostel Berakah as the sun was setting over a mountainous hillside just beyond the border of town.

The buildings were no more than a couple stories high, and the hostel was located on the cobblestone Avenue de Copan, only a few hundred feet from the Parque Central. As you exit the hostel to the right, just before reaching the parque, the archaic yet still useful road hangs a left downhill over a small stream and into the surrounding farmlands. This would be the route I would take the following morning to visit the crown jewel of this small valley in western Honduras, the famous Mayan Ruinas de Copan (Mayan Ruins of Copan).

Since my stomach was empty, however, I turned left out of the hostel that first evening and around the next corner was a small indoor market, Dispensa Familiar. Grateful for some regular food choices, my stomach decided that a salad would be the best option for the evening - nothing like a bowl of fruits and vegetables to make up for such Central American gas station delicacies as "meat wrapped in dough" and "stale crackers with fat cream and red flakes."

I returned home from the market with a bag full of grapes, tomatoes, broccoli, and other greens. Having had my full of the plato tipico de Honduras (eggs, beans, fried plantains, and tortillas - a traditional plate of Honduran food), I prepared what I felt was a healthy, delicious meal that would give me the right boost of energy for my final few days in this part of the World.

The fog burning off the mountains during my first morning in Copan.

I felt fine when I woke the next day, and it was only a short walk to the entrance of the ruins which were designated a UNESCO World Heritage property in 1980. I initially walked right past the main entrance where I should have bought a $15 ticket, but it wasn't too difficult to remedy my mistake. Once I reached the main path leading to the ruins, a path lined with tall trees and flocks of colorful macaws flying overhead, it hit me - the kind of hit that can only come from some terrible bug destroying your insides.

From the moment I saw the first bricks protruding from the ground to form either a temple or a ceremonial alter, my stomach was rumbling and the pain was almost unbearable. Apparently, the salad I consumed the prior evening was not as healthy as I originally thought. Something was wrong. Something was oh-so-terribly wrong. However, I had just paid $15 to see some Mayan ruins and dammit I'm gonna see some ruins.

Although I snapped a few selfies of me smiling while looking over the ancient courtyards and surrounding mountains, the only happy memory I have from that day was returning to my hostel and laying in a hammock for many hours (only getting up to use the bathroom multiple times). My two hours of attempting to be happy while enjoying Copan Ruians will surely be remembered - just not for the ruins, and more for the runs.

After a miserable evening of trying to calm my innards and find a few moments of sleep, I woke early and walked along the cobblestone streets where a town map indicated I would find a farmacia. I purchased what I assumed was the Central American equivalent of Pepto and Pedialyte (they were pink and orange, respectively). I consumed both bottles and spent the entire day either in the hammock or in the bathroom. However, I relished knowing that I had just seen my second of three ancient civilizations in Central and South America (the first was the Incan ruins at Machu Picchu in Peru back in 2011), and now all I have left are the Aztecs in Mexico to complete the set.

A view into The Great Plaza. The tent to the
right is covering an active restoration site.

I returned twice more throughout the day to the farmacia to purchase more colored liquids, and slowly my body's urge to regurgitate itself in various forms began to subside.When sun began to rise the next morning, I was able to muster the energy needed to once again walk down the cobblestone roads, but this time to a bus stop. Here I would begin my final leg of this journey back to San Pedro Sula (SPS) where I flew into Aeropuerto Ramon Villeda almost three months prior.

Back in SPS, the bustling transit station on the outskirts of town was just as it had been on my prior visit to the terminal before traveling to the port town of La Cieba (before spending two months on Utila). The station is lined on the outside with a seemingly endless number of white vans - all with at least one hype guy ensuring that if you pay them money they will get you where you need to go. Although I had been through this dog and pony show many times over the course of my trip, this one proved an extra difficult task as I was now searching for transportation to the airport. The "aeropuerto" is a buzz word for most of the profiteering taxi men as they know it is their final opportunity to squeeze as much money as possible from a well traveled, but exhausted American - and I can only imagine their increased pressure tactics work quite well.

A monument that sits outside of
the main walls of the ruins.
In other words, it's free to see.

After one failed attempt to find suitable transportation, I found myself somewhere in the heart of SPS. The driver and hype guy had ensured me the airport was one of their first stops and I gladly gave them most of my remaining lempiras. However, once the little blue dot on my google maps began drifting away from the airport and towards the middle of the city, I decided to express my disdain with the best broken Spanish I could, and I must have made a few solid points as something happened that can only be described as a miracle to most weary travelers - the van driver gave me my money back! Although that didn't make up for the fact that I was still in the middle of an international city for which the U.S. State Department has a continuous travel warning.

I suppose it was serendipity rendering its little face that afternoon as a white taxi was idling just around the corner from where I exited the first van. However, it didn't take the form of Kate Beckinsale or a stripping Selma Hayek, but that of a dark skinned man wearing a hat, sunglasses, and a New York Knicks t-shirt who spoke nearly perfect English. After three months of practicing and struggling to speak another language, it was nice to find some familiarity for my final ride to the airport:

Me: Where'd you learn English?
Driver: I use to live in New York.
Me: Why'd you move back?
Driver: Oh, I was deported.
Me: Oh, really? What happened?
Driver: Felony drug and attempted murder charges...
Me: (Silence)
Driver: But that was a long time ago...

--

Back at the airport, someone had a puppy.

Thank you again for reading and following along with my impromptu journey through Central America. As usual, my time there was not long enough to see everything I would have wanted, and now there are new places I will need to return to see in the future (it's funny how that works, uh?). I returned to the States just in time for my friend Evan's bachelor party at Oyster Fest in New Orleans in early June. I will continue to write about stories from when I returned earlier this summer, including a motorcycle road trip to Yellowstone, a mother moose encounter in Rocky Mountain National Park, and my return to living in Denver. Hope you had a great Thanksgiving and a good start to the Holiday season!

-Dustin