The Ruins of Copan...and my intestines (July 8-11)

I woke up at a bright-and-early 6:00am on Friday, solely due to being sick. However, at this point, I was still feeling better than I had the day before. When we arrived at the hospital for work, Tom’s bleeding elbow, which had resulted from his riding the super-tall bike, was seen by some staff who then took him to the emergency room for treatment. They cleaned and bandaged the wound, prescribed preventative antibiotics, and were amused by how Tom’s injury had occurred.

Still being sick and seeing how easily Tom had received antibiotics, I asked about seeing a doctor myself. After asking a few questions, the doctor prescribed for me an antibiotic and an anti-parasitic medication, and the prescription was filled at the hospital’s pharmacy. Asking about the price, I was told, “es gratuito,” meaning, “it’s free.” Feeling confident about the health I would have over the weekend completely changed my attitude about my coming travels, which I had dreaded while sick in spite of the exciting destination—ancient Mayan ruins. The hassle-free and comforting nature of the entire situation made me think seriously about the benefits and challenges of a public healthcare system.

While I was gone, Tom had begun working on a hand-held sonic infant heart monitor unit, which would not even turn on. A challenge we encountered in fixing it was the integrated design of the device, which dictated that the device be mostly assembled in order to draw power from the batteries. “If only we could see the other side of the chip,” Tom said. “Actually, Tom,” I said in response, “we can.” Using the AC-to-DC variable power supply we had built in lab last month, we created the needed 3.2 volts of power and were able to test the device without the battery plate being connected. The problem was found to be in the on/off switch, where a small piece of contacting metal had broken off. Soldering on new piece of metal to replace the old, the device works once again, although there is risk that the mended switch could later break in the same manner.

Having been given permission to leave work after lunch to try to reach the Copan Ruinas in time to see them over a two-day weekend, Tom and I were confused by conflicting information throughout the bus station. Luckily, some of Maritza’s staff apparently worked a second job at the bus station, and they came and helped us when they saw us trying to find the right bus. Since our bus, we were told, would leave in just a few minutes for La Ceiba, we rushed to the house to pack hastily for the weekend trip. Reaching our bus just in time, we departed for La Ceiba and arrived there just in time for the last bus of the day leaving for San Pedro Sula, a city only about three hours from the ruins. Luckily, the boleteria in La Ceiba accepted dollars for the purchase of tickets, as we had run out of lempiras. Just before leaving the bus station, I witnessed a rather unique situation: one of the heavily armed and armored police officers stood next to where our bus was parked, holding with one arm his machine gun, while with his free hand he was texting on a cell phone!

I took many pictures during the bus ride of the beautiful Honduran countryside, though I wasn’t able to capture one of the most distinguishing sights I encountered. During sunset, a space between the peaks of two mountains contained a small raincloud from the base of which a brilliant rainbow stretched to valley below. Seconds later, the beautiful sight was out of view.

San Pedro Sula, or SPS, where we would be staying the night, is a dangerous city and a hub of one of the Western Hemisphere’s most violent gangs. In fact, riding the city’s municipal busses is not recommended for tourists, since in certain neighborhoods on the bus routes, gang members enter the bus to collect tribute from each passenger for the right to pass through the territory safely. Unfortunately, our taxi driver from the bus stop to our hotel cheated us, asking first for 100 lempiras, but then saying that this was the price-per-person once we reached the hotel. Although this was, by far, the most we had ever paid for a cab anywhere in Central America, we paid thinking we had little option since the neighborhood was dangerous and the driver seemed to be acquainted with the staff of the hotel he had brought us to (although he actually wasn’t).

The hotel itself was quite ‘sketchy’, being guarded by a man with a machete in the lobby area. While certainly an indispensible tool in rural areas, machetes can rarely be justified as anything more than a weapon in the city. However, the machete-man recommended to us an excellent nearby restaurant, “El Recreo”, which we could safely walk to in the dark. At the restaurant, we were given lots of useful information by the family who owned and ran the place. An English-speaking woman named Rosie, the sister of the restaurant’s manager, was especially helpful as she was able to find even more in-depth information about the area for us, having lived in New York for the past many years. “I’m here for a month to visit family, and then I have to go back because my kids miss me” she told us. She then lamented, “but everything here is so dangerous now with all the gang activity. Years ago, it didn’t used to be this way at all. You didn’t have to watch your back everywhere you went.”

Having asked Rosie where to find replacement printer parts, we set out the next morning to search for them before taking the bus to Copan Ruinas. Unfortunately, the store we had been referred to did not have the parts we were seeking, and the stores, one after another, that we were referred to after that did not have parts either. We then took a taxi to the bus station, but, unlike what our lying taxi driver the night before had told us, our bus did not leave until 11:00am, which was going to give us very little time to enjoy the ruins.

While waiting at the bus stop, we met an American named Mike, a Duke University student coming to Honduras to do research in World Health for his masters thesis (specifically, the effects of American junk-food brands on the oral health of Hondurans). Before we had spoken much to him, though, a bizarre, English-speaking character named Sharlin approached us. “Do you know how I can get to Belize?” he asked. “I’m from Haiti, but I can’t go back there because I have a problem with the president. I have to stay here for 30 days, and then I can go to Belize where I’m told there are people who can help me get political asylum. My family is in Canada, and they will send me money.”

His story then became even stranger. “All the police in Haiti, they have my picture and they will shoot me on sight if I go back there because of the problem I have with the president there. They already shot me four times,” he said, lifting his pant leg and lowering his sock to show a scar from a bullet wound. He also pointed to his hip and back as the locations of other scars. “Well,” I replied, “these bus schedules and things are as new to us as they are to you, but you should be able to get the help you need from the ticket booths.” “I’m from Haiti,” he said, “I speak French, English, and Creole but not Spanish.” Thinking it unwise to become any more involved, I said, “Some of the ticket sellers speak good English and should be able to help you.” When he left, I felt sorry for not being willing to help in case anything Sharlin said could have been true, but I took comfort in knowing that becoming involved in a political situation could potentially be even worse than if he had had other, drug- or gang- related reasons for wanting to go to Belize.

After arriving in Copan Ruinas, we were met by a hotel-owner trying to lure us to his place. “Three of you?” he said in clear, easily understood Spanish, “I can give you a nice room nearby for fifteen dollars.” Surprisingly, the room was quite adequate despite the rock-bottom low price, which was split between Tom, Mike, and I. The city of Copan Ruinas, which lies less than a mile from the ruins of the Mayan city of Copan, was rather picturesque, with cobblestone streets and old-fashioned, colonial buildings.

We finally arrived at the ruins only about two hours before the end of viewing hours, but we still had time to see many of the fascinating ancient structures. Climbing around the pyramids and ball courts, we took many photos of the beautiful scenery and ruins. Also, a storm was approaching the entire time we were there, creating an eerie background of thunder and gloom while we visited. Views from the tops of the many pyramids and buildings were astounding, and complemented by several quintessential four-legged creatures and colorful macaws. After leaving the ruins when they closed, Tom and I decided to take a nature hike on a thirty minute trail which, surprisingly, led to another, smaller Mayan ball-court. When we finally got to the end of the trail, though, the park as a whole was locked and under guard by two men with machine guns, who then let us out.

Shortly after coming back to our hotel, I was struck afresh with the sickness which had begun on Thursday, and after eating at a nice local restaurant, the resurging illness took me down for the rest of the weekend and more. I spent Saturday night sick, sleepless, and dehydrated, and was in the same state all of Sunday morning when I had hoped to be visiting either the museum of the ruins or the ruins all over again. Before leaving the city at 2:00pm for the long ride back to San Pedro Sula, I bought a package of sandwich buns and reluctantly ate some bread; virtually the only food I could even dream of stomaching at the time.

At San Pedro Sula, we were unable to reach the last bus of the day for La Ceiba in time, as the tickets for it had already sold out. Luckily, an honest taxi driver, after having earnestly tried to get seats on the bus for us, offered to drive us at a good price to El Progresso, another city from which a bus would leave for La Ceiba. We reached the bus stop in El Progresso before the departure time of 8:00pm, but the bus, which was quite full, was an hour late and did not arrive until 9:00pm. While waiting in the small lobby, I took out my Bible and happened to open to Esther, which I read thinking, “Well, however sick I am, it’s not so bad compared to what these people must have experienced.” Finishing Esther, the book beginning on the next page was Job. “Oh… that’s nice,” I thought.

During the long ride from El Progresso to La Ceiba in yet another bus with too little space between rows of seats for the length of my femurs, I sat next to a young man from Utila (an English-speaking Caribbean island of Honduras) named Clinton, who had also spent almost the entire weekend traveling to Tegucigalpa and back after dropping off his girlfriend for her flight to Denmark, where she was from. Clinton had lived in the United States (legally, I believe) for many years in New Orleans (2001-2009), and he witnessed the horror of hurricane Katrina. “Everything was flooded. Everything was destroyed,” he said. “It was a year before my family could return and rebuild our house.” However, I still wasn’t feeling well enough to talk to him much.

Later Saturday night, Tom and I finally arrived at the private bus stop in La Ceiba around 11:30pm and took a taxi to a hotel near the public bus terminal. The taxi driver gave us useful information about bus times the next day, but we may have misheard some of what he said, thinking that there was a bus for Olanchito leaving at 4:05am. With very little sleep, we took a taxi at 3:30am from our hotel to the bus terminal, where we waited for over two hours (which could have been spent sleeping) until the actual bus-time at 5:45am. At this point, I was prepared to justify my body’s rebellion against my desire for good health.

Waiting at the bus station in the dead of night was a unique experience, and we were at that time especially prone to robbery. However, most of the other eight to twelve people at the bus station during that time were bus drivers preparing for a day of work. Some were sleeping out on the open benches, others in the backs of taxis or cars, while the most innovative had full-length arrangements for themselves in the cargo holds of their busses. The funniest thing was that they walked around without shirts, etc., since they were only wearing their pajamas. Each time one of them approached us, Tom and I were made initially nervous by not knowing whether the buff and tough individual would be a bus driver or an armed robber. “Good morning, where are you headed?” each would say cheerfully. “Olanchito? Well that’s not me, but your bus will arrive later.” Finally, our bus came, and we reached our home city around 8:00am.

Going to our house, we met Maritza for the first time, and she asked if I was doing better since I had called her the day before to let her know we wouldn’t make it back for supper. “Still sick,” I responded, and instead of going to work on Monday, I spent the day sleeping and trying to rehydrate. At noon I took my last dose of antibiotics, but remained sick on into the evening. I went into the house to talk to Dilsea, saying, “I don’t have any more antibiotics but I’m still sick.” She asked several questions about my condition, and then relayed the information to Maritza, who called a doctor and described my condition. Maritza then went to the pharmacy to pick up my next round of medicines the doctor prescribed. My stay-alive-in-Honduras cocktail now contains six different drugs to control or prevent the effects of Malaria, intestinal parasites, food-borne illness, and high blood pressure. “Try not to worry,” Maritza said, “These medicines work very well, and everything will be better tomorrow.”