In Copan, the Face of the Past

When explorer John Lloyd Stephens began cutting through tangled roots and trees to the Mayan ruins of Copan in 1839, he didn’t fully understand what he was seeing.

When we found the Copan ruins last August, we didn’t understand what we were seeing either. Nothing in the park was labeled, guides were nowhere to be found and pamphlets gave minimal information.

My husband, Rolf, daughters Marisa, 18, and Talia, 12, and I waited at the entrance for a guide who was supposed to show up at noon; at 1 p.m. we gave up. It had been a long journey just to look at stones, but we went in anyway. The gods apparently were smiling: We found an unofficial guide to help show us around.

We came here, as other tourists often do, after a resort vacation on one of the Bay Islands, 40 miles off the coast, because we wanted to understand something of Honduras’ history. Our choice of relevant sites was limited; Honduras is the least developed country in the Western Hemisphere and the poorest in Central America, according to World Bank. The infrastructure can’t handle hordes of tourists, especially since October 1998, when Hurricane Mitch wiped out hundreds of roads that have yet to be repaired.

We flew from the island of Roatan into San Pedro Sula, Honduras’ second largest city at 350,000, and picked up a rental car at the airport. When we asked for directions to the Copan ruins, the agent at the rental counter laughed. “There is only one paved road around here,” she said. “Just drive on it until you get there.”

From San Pedro Sula in the northwest corner of the country, you have three transportation options to the ruins 122 miles southwest: a five-hour bus ride that picks up passengers in villages along the way for $2.50, the express bus for $4.50 (which, inexplicably, also takes five hours) or a rental car, which will get you there in three hours if there are no police roadblocks, animals being herded or people sleeping on the pavement.

It was 3 p.m., and we wanted to get to the town of Copan Ruinas before dark, so we crammed into a ’92 Mazda rental and maneuvered around horse carts, smoke-belching pickup trucks packed with riders, and worn-out yellow school buses from the U.S., which are used here as city buses. Traffic thinned out, and after an hour it consisted only of people, dogs and horses walking along the road.

We passed houses made of whatever is available--sheet metal, sticks, bricks, broken windowpanes, plastic bottles and grocery bags jammed into the holes to keep the rain out. Children carried bags of dried beans, women hoisted baskets of fruit on their heads, men carried machetes (a disarming sight, but they use them in the cornfields) and boys carried bundles of wood on their backs.

It was a cultural eye-opener, especially for my girls, whose only foreign travel experiences have been in Europe. Nothing, though, was more surprising for us, visitors from the land of freeways, than seeing people lying in the road. Few people own cars, and a walk into town can be long and hot. The pavement is the smoothest place to rest, and nappers figure that what few cars there are can just drive around them. Despite having to dodge the dozing, we made it to Copan Ruinas in three hours.

Here we found, to our delight, a quaint colonial town of narrow cobblestone streets and little houses with red-tiled roofs set against the lush green hills. After industrial-ugly San Pedro Sula, I was immediately enchanted: Copan Ruinas is quintessentially Central American in style and friendliness.

It was getting dark and beginning to rain when we pulled up to the Hotel Marina Copan, a Spanish Colonial-style inn with flickering candles in the courtyard, a cozy restaurant and marimba musicians. But the woman at the counter shook her head apologetically. No rooms. Our faces reflected our confusion. This was the off-season. The restaurant looked nearly empty, and we saw no one else in the lobby. “Well,” she said, “we do have one room, but it leaks when it rains.” We were exhausted. Any room in this pretty hotel, even a drippy one, was fine, we told her.

Now it was her turn to be nonplused. Unwittingly, we had thrown off her convoluted sales tactic by accepting the leaky room. She excused herself and disappeared into the back. A moment later she returned, saying, “Well, actually, we do have another room.” Does it leak? No. Can we get $10 off the price? Yes. The bellman later told us the hotel was only one-quarter full.

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Copan Ruinas lives off the tourist industry. About 60,000 visitors come to see the ruins in a typical year, though they don’t all stay overnight in town. Street vendors sell necklaces, baskets and hammocks, and people hawking horseback rides were on every corner.

Even the bellman, Maurizio Espinoza, offered to take us on a horseback ride into the mountains to see the hill people who live in huts of palm fronds. Although the ruins are a 20-minute walk from town, we would take a three-hour ride before ending at the Copan ruins. It sounded like an adventure. Maurizio had the next day, Sunday, off, and we agreed to a ride for $15 each. (Maurizio didn’t speak English, so Rolf, whose Spanish is good, translated for us.)

We met Maurizio early the next morning behind the hotel and mounted horses that looked tired and old. Unlike in the States, there were no legal waiver forms to fill out. Anyone of any age can ride.

As we rode, we passed families walking to church. They smiled and waved. One man carried a machete, and our collective jaws dropped.

“Ah, Maurizio?”

“Si?”

“Why is he carrying a machete to church?”

“In case there is trouble in town,” Maurizio answered with a grin.

His answer added local color to the ride, though we weren’t sure how serious he was.

The muddy trail cut through the jungle, which was hot and steamy. August is clearly the wrong month to take a three-hour horseback ride. On the hillside trails there wasn’t much to see besides dense foliage, and, other than the beautiful wide, dark eyes of some children we passed, what lodges foremost in my memory is the four of us sitting on our scrawny mounts, swatting mosquitoes. (December through April is cooler and drier.)

Trying to inject an air of mystery, Maurizio did his best to persuade us that each mound of dirt we passed was a yet-to-be-uncovered ancient Mayan ruin.

We trotted along the brown Copan River, where naked children splashed at the shore, finally reaching the ruins. Maurizio took the horses back to town.

Before entering, we stopped for sodas at an outdoor stand. The vendor opened the bottles, put a straw in each and handed them to us. As we began to walk away, he ran over to us, saying, “No, no bottles. Bottles stay here.” Understanding that we wanted to sip slowly while walking through the park, he pulled out some sandwich-size plastic bags and dumped each beverage into them, tying the bag deftly around the straw. Takeout, Honduran style.

After paying the $15-per-person entrance fee, we stopped at the museum, which houses many of the stone stelae to protect them from the elements. (Replicas stand in their original places.) Then you must walk about a quarter-mile of steamy tropical forest trails to reach Copan’s Great Plaza, where the city’s main acropolis rises 100 feet.

There I overheard an American man explaining some of the history of the ruins to an elderly couple from Oregon, and I asked whether we could tag along. No problem.

So we joined Don Meinders, a Florida biologist who has lived in Honduras for 10 years teaching farmers about crop rotation and seed propagation. Like Angelenos who are always on Disneyland duty, Meinders, who lives an hour away, makes the obligatory tour to the ruins several times a year to escort visiting friends and relatives.

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Copan isn’t as imposing as the Mayan sites in Mexico and Guatemala (it’s only 54 acres), but it is considered the most important because of its craftsmanship and artistry. Spanish explorer Don Diego Garcia de Palacio found the ruins in 1570s, but the Spanish ignored them. It wasn’t until 1839, when American explorer John Lloyd Stephens and Frederick Catherwood, an artist from Britain, mapped the site, drew pictures of the stelae and published “Incidents of Travel in Central America, Chiapas, and Yucatan” (1841) that the site created worldwide interest.

Archeologists think that Indian settlers began moving to the Rio Copan Valley around 1000 BC, although construction of this city did not begin until AD 100 by the agrarian Mayans from Mexico. Their civilization spread from the Yucatan and Belize down to Guatemala and El Salvador from 100 to 900.

Copan became an important Mayan city during the Classic Period, from 250 to 900, and at its peak early in the 9th century, it may have been home to as many as 20,000 people. The stelae show that astronomers in Copan calculated a highly sophisticated and accurate solar calendar.

At its zenith, the city contained stone temples, two large pyramids, several stairways and plazas. Each successive ruler added buildings or monuments until 822, under the last ruler, U Cit Tok. The city began to decline and by 1200 was abandoned, probably because of soil erosion and drought, scientists believe.

The carved relief style for which Copan is best known developed during the reign of 18 Rabbit (a ruler from 695 to 738), who also oversaw the construction of the Great Plaza, the final version of the ball court and Temple 22 in the East Court, where human sacrifices were made.

Smoke Shell, the 15th ruler (749 to 763), was responsible for the construction of the Hieroglyphic Stairway, a monument that chronicles the battle achievements of 15 of the 17 rulers with 1,500 elaborately carved hieroglyphics, which also describe the succession of dynasties.

Even in the heat, the stairs gave me chills because centuries of history were dedicated on every step. When we wondered aloud how the Mayans could carve every inch of stone so beautifully, Meinders told us that limestone is easily carved when it’s dug from the moist soil. It hardens only when completely dry.

Other buildings and monuments are moss-covered and wrapped tightly by the thick roots of ancient ceiba and cedar trees.

There are plenty of stelae to see, yet only half of the city has been excavated. The digging continues, but there are no plans to uncover the whole city.

As awe-struck as we were by the size of the stones and the detail of the stelae, it was hot, and after three hours the girls had seen enough. All we could think about was a swim in the pool and a nice meal. But how to get back to town without walking another 20 minutes in the heat? Rolf had read in a guidebook that nearly anyone with a car would pick up hitchhikers. The locals earn extra money that way.

We had barely set out on the highway when a battered, unpainted Volkswagen van crammed with riders stopped. “A ride, senor?” one man asked my husband. “Well, yes,” Rolf said, “But . . . “ and he pointed to the three of us. With astonishing alacrity, two young men jumped out and climbed onto the roof, and with the van door open, another rider stood in the door holding onto the window frame. As we approached the van, mothers moved children onto their laps, and we squeezed in and crouched down on the van’s metal floor. We smiled, grateful for a ride that cost us only 84 cents, though we tipped the driver well.

Back at the hotel we ate at the Marina Copan’s restaurant. (Many restaurants in Honduras are in hotels.) Well-prepared meat dishes--tasty but not at all spicy--served with thick tortillas were the menu mainstay. Bean soups, fried plantains and tamales were good too, though undistinguished. But I would return to Honduras just for the incredibly sweet bananas that we bought at a market in town: three for 14 cents.

We still had time on the last day to drive the six-mile unpaved road to the Guatemalan border. We wanted another stamp in our passports and to set foot in another country. The deeply rutted, twisting road made six miles feel like 60 in our rental car. A tiny sign, a little hut and a rope draped between two sticks across the road signaled that we had arrived at the border. The guard smiled when we said we planned to stay only 15 minutes in his country. Nevertheless, there were entry fees to pay and detailed forms to fill out.

At the first snack stand we came to, Rolf shared a beer with some locals who hooted and toasted to the fact that we’d paid $7 each just to cross the border and say we’d been there. After all, they said, doesn’t it look the same?

At first glance it does. But that’s the mystery of the jungle. There is always more to discover.

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Karin Esterhammer is an editor in the Travel section.

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GUIDEBOOK

Road to Ruins in Copan

Getting there: Continental and TACA offer connecting flights to San Pedro Sula, the closest major city. Restricted round-trip fares begin at $521. Several car rental agencies are represented at the airport.

Where to stay: Hotel Marina Copan, Central Plaza, CopanRuinas, Honduras; telephone 011-504-651-4070, fax 011-504-651-4477, Internet https://www.netsys.hn/~hmarinac. This 70-year-old hotel is the town’s best. It has 40 rooms, pool, restaurant and a gym with one set of hand weights and a mat. Double rooms begin at $85.

We peeked into another nice hotel on the plaza, the Camino Maya; tel. 011-504-651-4648, fax 011-504-651-4517. Doubles begin at $54 per night.

On our horse ride, we stopped for lemonade at Hacienda San Lucas, tel. 011-504-651-4106, about one mile out of town. The hacienda is 100 years old, and it doesn’t look as though a thing has changed. No air-conditioning, but plenty of charm. Two double rooms ($45) and two single rooms ($40) are available.

Expect frequent power outages throughout Honduras. Rooms usually have candles and matchbooks, but it helps to bring your own flashlight.

Where to eat: Few restaurants exist outside of the area’s hotels. Because the water at Hotel Marina Copan (see number above) is purified, we ate there. Other hotel restaurants offered similar menus and prices. Entrees such as Honduran tamales and plantains, and steak average $7.

The Hacienda San Lucas also serves meals--mostly tamales and tortillas with meat cooked on a wood stove.

For more information: Consulate General of Honduras, Tourist Section, 3450 Wilshire Blvd., Suite 230, Los Angeles, CA 90010; tel. (213) 383-9244, fax (213) 383-9306, Internet https://www.hondurasinfo.hn.