Sky People (10 page)

“Can you tell me what you mean by that description?” I asked.

“We found a skeleton of a man in a silver suit. His suit was silver from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet. All that remained inside the suit was a skeleton. From the size of the suit he was a small man, smaller than me.” He spread his hands to reveal the size; the skeleton could have been no more than a meter (3 1/3 feet) tall. “His head was covered in a hard, metallike tube. We found a strange tablet with strange characters on it lying beside him. It was not Mayan writing. We knew the
Mayan writing from the
stelae
. This writing was foreign to us. It was unknown to the archaeologists, too. They had no idea who wrote it. We took our treasure to the archaeologists hoping for a big reward.”

“Can you tell me more about the helmet covering his head?”

“It can best be described as a large can. It was that shape. It was attached to the suit and had a hose that attached to the front of the suit. There were different colored buttons on the front of the breast of the suit.”

“What happened when the archaeologists saw your discovery?” I asked.

“They were excited. They took it into one of their tents and began examining it. One of them said they had to send it back to the USA immediately. He said it was proof that the Maya had a connection with the stars. That is why I named him the silver man from the stars. I thought it was a good name.”

“What happened after that?”

“The next day I saw a box in the tent. I think they packed him up and shipped him to their university. I never saw him again. All of my life I have wondered about the silver man. I am sure that scientists in USA have studied and re-studied him, but they keep it secret. It is proof that aliens exist, don’t you think?”

“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.

U
nfortunately, 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
.

B
efore 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.