They
gathered at the dock in a warm rain. The party was bigger than Peter had realized.
There were the three archaeologists, three student interns, himself,
Arias-Garcia, Cruz-Madrid, the ten soldiers and a crew of a dozen Hondurans who
were busy loading equipment on to a flotilla of eight zodiac rafts with
outboard motors gathered at the dock. Peter was directed into a zodiac with
Cruz- Madrid, now dressed in green camouflage fatigues like the soldiers, one
of the interns, a soldier and a Honduran at the stern controlling the small
outboard engine. A small group of Garifuna stood on the shore watching as the
rafts pulled out into the channel and headed up river. Arias-Garcia and Doctor
DeGroet were in the lead raft.
The channel they followed
was surrounded by mangroves. Occasionally they passed an island with tall trees
and thick foliage. There were hundreds of birds; blue heron, white egrets and
even a few sea birds. From the salt smell of the air they were still at the
mouth of the river in its delta. Peter was grateful for the rain poncho and
bush hat. Without them he would have been soaked by the incessant rain. The
intern was a tall, slender, small breasted girl with short blonde hair named
Wendy Dirks. She was an archeology student from Michigan State who seemed
excited to be on the expedition. Peter wished he could share her enthusiasm.
She immediately assailed Cruz-Madrid with questions about Honduras, its
history, government, politics and culture. Cruz-Madrid tried hard to appear
authoritative and knowledgeable but Peter could tell he knew surprisingly
little about his own country and was bluffing in most of his answers. He
suspected Aramis had half-hearted designs on bedding the lanky girl and was
trying to impress. In fact, Cruz-Madrid looked completely different in his
jungle fatigues, with a .45 stuck in a green canvas holster on his hip, instead
of his usual impeccably tailored and starched dress khakis. He looked like a
tough but elegant combat veteran, almost heroic in a vague sort of way with his
camouflage fatigue cap with captain's bars pushed rakishly back on his head
like an early picture of Fidel Castro.
They finally emerged into a
wider channel and there were no more mangroves, just tall trees and thick
underbrush on either bank. "We are in the main river now," said
Cruz-Madrid.
"How long will we be
on the river today?" asked Peter.
"Until dark. We won't
make the Pech village until late tomorrow so we will probably find a good spot
to camp for the night. There is a Miskito village we pass today but I had the
feeling Arias-Garcia was not comfortable staying with them."
"What's the problem
with the Miskito?"
"Probably nothing. But
they are known for not being fond of outsiders. You may have heard that back in
2009 the Miskito in Nicaragua declared independence from that country. Honduras
does not bother them much but they would not be very receptive to having
Honduran soldiers and a bunch of white men in their village."
"Who exactly are the
Miskito?" asked Wendy.
"Indios, a local
tribe, who, many years ago, intermarried with escaped African slaves and
Europeans, perhaps pirates or shipwreck survivors to form a unique culture.
Years ago, the English armed them and supported their aggression against other
tribes and the Honduran government so they became the dominant group along the
coast, other than the Garifuna."
"So interesting,"
said Wendy.
"What about their
religion?" asked Peter.
"Mostly Christian, I
think, but much more conventional than the Garifuna."
"So you heard the
drums last night too?"
"It was hard not to. I
just tried to ignore them."
"What's so unique
about the Garifuna religion?" asked Wendy.
"You've heard of
Santeria and Voodoo?" said Peter "the Garifuna have a similar melding
of Christian and West African religious concepts. Last night I was foolish
enough to creep out towards the drumming noise and I saw part of their ceremony.
Laying out food and drink for the gods, dancing and singing to summon them. But
Aramis, do they worship some sort of monkey god?"
"No, Peter,"
Cruz-Madrid laughed, "their gods are usually a combination of a Christian
saint and a West African spirit, they don't worship animals. You know who is an
expert on Garifuna worship, Peter? Our mutual friend, Jahaira. Her father
taught her all about them and now she has a Garifuna servant, Angelica, who was
a shaman for the village we just left. Jahaira would tell you they do not
worship monkeys."
"Who is Jahaira?"
asked Wendy.
"A young woman who is
the illegitimate offspring of an old and aristocratic Honduran family. She
lives in a seventeenth century house in a very old section of Tegus. They say
she is a bruja, a witch."
"My god she sounds
fascinating," said Wendy. "Is she really a witch? Can I meet her when
we get back to Tegucigalpa?" Cruz-Madrid smiled.
"I do believe she is a
witch, of sorts. Many people go to her for cures of ailments, to solve their
romantic problems or to take revenge on their enemies. She has a reputation for
being effective. There are even rumors she has cast spells on high ranking
government officials but they are just that, rumors. She is a very clever woman
and a keen observer of human nature but I do not believe she has magic if that
is what you mean by a 'witch.'"
"What do you believe
Aramis, were you raised as a Catholic?" asked Wendy.
"Indeed, most
Hondurans and every member of the elite families, are raised as Catholics. My
mother was very devout, she made us attend church each Sunday and was always
thanking god for the blessings he had bestowed on our family. As for me, I
think I stopped believing when I was a teenager and I realized all the things I
was dreaming of doing were sins, serious sins. I remember Father Mendoza at
school telling us that even to think lustfully of a woman was offensive to god,
offensive enough to get us condemned to hell for all eternity. I remember
thinking that I could not help having those lustful thoughts, after all I was a
teenage boy. So if I was going to hell
just for thinking about those things I might as well do them and go to hell for
the act instead of the thought. Then my uncle took me to the finest brothel in
Tegus and I knew I was right. I just stopped worrying about all those things
and live my life as though god does not exist. In the end, why would a god care
about love play between men and women much less make it a mortal sin?"
Wendy had blushed a bit at what Cruz-Madrid said but she persisted in the
discussion.
"What about you,
Peter? Did you grow up religious?"
"Not at all, my
parents were both professionals, well educated, urban dwellers. They were
agnostics, they said, but god or the idea of god played no part in their lives.
If they were asked they would tell you that the existence of god could neither
be proven nor disproven and that they were open to the possibility of his, its,
existence. As for me, I tend to be more of an atheist. When I look at the world
I don't see a lot of joy or love. Maybe in books and movies, but not in real
life. I see a lot of suffering, poverty, wars, sickness, hunger, earthquakes,
storms, tsunamis. If man really were made in the image and likeness of god,
then how do you explain the cruelty, intolerance, social rigidity, greed,
exploitation and violence that is an everyday part of human society? Is god
like that and we are just pale images of what he is? Christians tell us that
god is all good and full of love and forgiveness. That just seems impossible to
me. So what about you, Wendy, what do you believe?"
"I was raised
Presbyterian. We went to church a lot but not every Sunday. Sometimes there
were soccer games or practice or family outings that interfered. I played a lot
of soccer when I was younger. But I do still believe and stuff. I mean, man was
given free will by god and just kind of thrown in to a difficult world. It's
obvious god doesn't come down and reveal himself to people like he did in the
old testament. He just kind of lets us do our thing and make our own mistakes.
The sickness and natural disasters and stuff, I mean I just think that's part
of the challenge he's given us. He wants us to struggle and prove
ourselves."
From the lead raft, there
was suddenly a shout. They could not make out what was being said but those in
the front rafts were pointing towards something floating in the water being
carried by the current. As it came closer, Peter could see it was a body.
Keywords: Ciudad Blanca,
lost city, Honduras, Monkey God, adventure
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