Honduras - On The Way To Copan

( Originally Published 1905 )

To rest you here, to muse on flood and fell,

To slowly trace the forest's shady scene

Where things that own not man's dominion dwell

And mortal foot hath n'er or rarely been.

—Childe Harold.

ABOUT one hundred miles from its mouth, at the Bay of Honduras, there is an ugly gash in the side of the Motagua River. The streams, runlets and waters of the fever and hot, malarial lands of southern Honduras must some way force a passage back to the breasts of their mother, the great sea from which they were lifted by the mysterious power of the sun. They gathered in the valley of Chiquimula, united their forces and called themselves the Copan. Long ago, when torrential rains deluged the land, they moved northward, met the Motagua, tore open its side and ever since have right-of-way to the sea. Fifty miles from this opening, on the eastern bank of the Copan River, are the ruins of a dead city, buried in a dense thicket of exuberant vegetation. This is Copan. How old is it ? When was the city built and by whom ? Why was it abandoned ? We know not. It was alive, for we have found the corpse.

When, in 1841, Stephens published an introductory pamphlet to his great work, " Explorations in Central America," and told of these forest-buried cities of a civilized and vanished race, he was branded on a lecture platform in Boston as an impostor and a cheat. The tale was incredible. Then came Catherwood's wonderful drawings and illustrations, and those interested in antiquities were amazed. The discovery of the Rosetta stone and Champollion's decipherment of the Egyptian hieroglyphics deepened antiquarian interest in Europe and scholars like Rouse and Cardinal Wiseman plunged into ethnological research. Then came the verification of the reports of the wonderful prehistoric cities of Central America, and learned men began to rearrange their ideas touching the origin of man. The French philosophers after contemptuously waving aside the inspirational record of man's origin, taught that original man was a savage, and that by his own unaided industry he rose to the perfection of his manhood and the perfect civilization then to be found in France, and only in France. The forest-shrouded cities of Central America told a different story, for here, at least, were proofs that the race descended from a high material civilization, and at the time of the discovery of America its people were drifting into barbarism and savagery. It is impossible to deny the civilization and vast antiquity of this land without using methods of criticism that would destroy the credibility of all history. But I am digressing into a thesis on ethnology and in a sense anticipating my mission.

On Thursday morning, March 2nd, we left the Indian town of Totaliche and began our journey for the ruins of Copan. I say we for I was accompanied by Estaban Talpa, who served for guide, companion and handy man. Our horses were small but tough, and sure-footed, and cost eleven dollars each. Estaban wore a wide-brimmed Mexican sombrero, grass woven, and the safest and most sensible hat for the tropics yet invented. The dark copper skin of his body was covered by a cotton shirt and drawers. He carried,.swung to a belt of jaguar skin, a machete, which in this country is axe, sword, knife and cutlass, and in the hand of a native is a weapon or instrument of indispensable utility. Travel in the tropics begins early, pauses during the heat of the day, and ends long after sunset.

Before Americans crowded into the first-class compartments on French and Italian trains, it was a common saying that only " mi-lords" and fools travelled on first-class tickets. Down in this extraordinary land the people tell you that only Americans and fugitives travel in mid-day. Even the fools are wise for four hours out of the twenty-four. People rise early in these " hot lands," and as we rode through the town many a friendly voice followed us with a mas ver—good-bye —or greeted us with adios—a pleasant journey to you—or literally, "we commend you to God." At La Venta, a cosey little cluster of wattled huts nestling in a depression of the Laguna Hills, we breakfasted on tortillas, eggs and excellent coffee. Here we entered the Yuca Plains, where the tree growth was low and scrubby, and consisted mainly of acacias, or thorn trees, and curious tree-like cacti, thirty or forty feet high, and covered, trunk and branch, with needles and spines. It is called in derision the monkey tree. Cervantes in his " Don Quixote," describes a land where there "were roads without a road and pathless paths." Over this Yuca land is spread a thick covering of dust, fine as miller's grist, that on the slightest provocation by wind or breeze, fills the air and destroys all traces of trail or mule-path. For more than half a century Honduras, like Nicaragua, claimed a bad preeminence over all other states of the world for war, bloodshed and chronic revolt against elected authority.

Official corruption, repeated uprisings and local rebellions have emptied the treasury and so exhausted the resources of this fertile country that at last the state is bankrupt, and the republic rests. Could these seething and fermenting states unite, and once for all bury their animosity and give up their absurd fanfaronades and expensive military shows and establishments, the future of this magnificent country would be assured. The whole of Central America measures in length but eight or nine hundred miles, varying in breadth from thirty to three hundred miles, yet no reliable survey has ever been made. Thousands of acres are untouched and unexplored, and the money which should have gone to open this land, build roads and teach the children, is wasted on military shows, and body guards for presidents, generals, judges and courts.

On the pathless desolation around us the heat was great, but not oppressive. It was not tropical; the odour of decay, of vegetable decomposition, and of fatal humidity was not with it. I was making for the Copan River, and if we met with no accident, we ought to enter the village of Tepetitlan in time for supper. Passing out of the Yuca desert, we entered the alluvial bottoms of the Rio Chiapa, rich in malma and alfalfa grass, on which herds of cattle were fattening. Beyond and around the cattle meadows, far as the eye could reach, the land was under cultivation. Here the sugarcane attains a growth of nine feet in as many months; yields four tons to the acre, will rattoon for years without replanting, and as brown sugar can be bagged at fifty cents per arroba—twenty-five pounds—and white at one dollar, the profit is encouraging. Much of the juice of the cane is converted into aguardiente or rum, from the sale of which the government gets a snug revenue.

" Estaban," I said to my companion, " what do they do with all these banana and rubber trees ?" " These," he answered, " are to shade the young coffee and cacao plants, which must be protected from the sun and wind." From the cacao tree we get our chocolate and cocoa, and chocolate candies. We were passing through a country fertile as the famous peach belt of the Niagara peninsula, where fruits, unheard of at home, ripen and luxuriate.

The aguascati is used in Waldorf salads, the cherimoya, like the Indian custard apple, is shipped to New York or London in air-tight bottles. Pineapples fairly rival those of the Azores. As for mangoes, the luscious relatives of the Oriental mangonese, they are so juicy that the Hondurians say they must be eaten in a bath. Here is the land of yams, oranges, plantains, manioc or bread-fruit, limes, and shaddocks. We passed out of this garden of paradise, traversed a treeless and arid plain, and as the sun was dipping to the horizon, rode into a group of huts dignified with the high-sounding name of Tepetitlan.

In many of the inland towns of Central America, there are no lodging-houses. As there are no commercial or other travellers, no provision is made for the visiting stranger. Indeed, by the dogs and children he is received as an enemy, and a trespasser. Here, however, I had to put in the night, and as it was a case of " any port in a storm," I closed with a decent-looking half-caste for accommodation for ourselves and beasts. Poor as the surroundings were, the meal was clean and good, and if it were not for the intrusive yet pardonable curiosity of the people the evening or early night—there are no evenings here—would have passed off pleasantly enough. In these inland village shanties there are no beds. A bullhide or hammock is much better and cleaner, and, when one is used to it, just as comfortable. My hotel for the night was a one-roomed shack, and before throwing myself on the bullhide the good woman of the house had " made up " for me, I took an account of stock. I counted four cats, two dogs, a macaw, the man and his wife, a daughter of fourteen, three children, and my mozo, or servant, Estaban. This was too much for me. I whispered to Estaban to swing my hammock in the palm-yard. " Why, senor ?" he asked, with eyes swimming in amazement. " I fear the mosquitoes will suck the life out of me," I replied.

He threw up his hands, said the night air was bad, and that under the cover of the hut the mosquitoes were virtually an extinct species compared to the swarms that would fall upon me outside. However, I carried my point, and passed a memorable night.