The Lost City of the Monkey God: A True Story(81)
With these sobering thoughts in mind, I descended from the hill and made my way back to camp as the setting sun filled the treetops. After dinner, when it got dark and the bugs came out, I forgot my promise to take refuge in my tent and instead lingered in the kitchen area with Chris, Dave, Anna, Spud, and the rest. We relaxed under the tarp, telling stories, listening to music, and drinking tea by the light of a softly hissing Coleman lantern. There is something irresistible about an evening in camp, when the temperature cools and the soft night air is filled with the sounds of wildlife, while everyone kicks back from the work of the day. Over at the soldiers’ camp, a string of Christmas lights lit up and we heard the sounds of an action film echoing from the main tent.
The next morning, I was glad to hear the familiar roar of the howler monkeys at dawn, although they had by now retreated across the river. The morning mist filled the air. The soldiers were back at work, excited and nervous, putting the finishing touches on the staircase for the president’s visit later that morning. Their boots were polished, weapons cleaned and oiled, uniforms as neat as possible in the steamy jungle environment.
The mist broke around midmorning and a brief rain fell in the weak sunlight. Then the sound of helicopters filled the air, distant at first, getting louder. Three landed in quick succession, disgorging press and Honduran officials—and Steve Elkins. The brass included the commanding general of the Honduran army; the minister of defense; Ramón Espinoza, the minister of science and technology; and Virgilio. Out of the third helicopter, emblazoned with Honduran flags, stepped the president of the country, Juan Orlando Hernández, accompanied by the American ambassador, James Nealon.
Chris Fisher greeted President Hernández on the landing pad with an urgent gift: a brand-new pair of snake gaiters to put on before he went any farther. We stood by while the president cheerfully wrapped them around his calves, chatting in English with Steve, Chris, and the ambassador. Dressed in a guayabera shirt and a Panama hat, Hernández was not a tall man; he had a friendly, boyish face, and carried himself without any of the stiffness or pomp one might expect from the country’s leader. Indeed, I had noticed that when people entered the T1 valley, a place so completely cut off from the world, distinctions and hierarchical divisions seemed to fall away. I found myself, for example, rolling up my sleeve and comparing my leishmaniasis scars with those of Lt. Col. Oseguera.
I followed as the president and his entourage began the hike up to the site, toiling up the earthen staircase and piling into the cache area, hemmed in by jungle. Chris’s police tape was soon ignored and everyone crowded into the excavated area, tromping about and posing for photographs. I could see Chris trying to maintain his cool, a nervous smile plastered on his face.
The president was energized. This was more than an official duty. The first object to be removed, the stone vessel with the vulture heads, had been left in situ, on a pedestal of earth—exactly as it had been set in place as an offering five hundred years before. The president knelt next to it, along with Chris Fisher, Steve, Ramón Espinoza, and Virgilio. Steve placed his hand on the jar and said a few words. “It’s been a long twenty-three years for this moment—finally! And it will probably be another two hundred years to find what’s here.” Chris and President Hernández then grasped the lugs on the massive vessel as the cameras flashed, dislodged it from its bed of centuries, and lifted it from the shallow hole.
While the artifacts were being packed for their trip out, I interviewed Hernández, who spoke with enthusiasm about the discovery and what it would mean for Honduras. As a child he had heard legends of Ciudad Blanca and had been moved by the news in 2012, when he was president of the Honduran Congress, that our shot-in-the-dark lidar survey of Mosquitia had turned up not one but two lost cities. “This is an archaeological and historic event,” he said. “This culture is fascinating, but we’ve got a lot to learn, and it’s going to take some time.” He added, proudly, “We are happy to share this knowledge with the world.” I thought about Juan Carlos’s observation that Hondurans lacked a strong national identity and a sense of their own history. Perhaps we all shared a hope that this discovery might change that.
When the artifact was packed and ready, the archaeologists and soldiers carried it down the narrow jungle trail, a person at each corner, mimicking the litter technique used by Howard Carter at King Tut’s tomb. The two artifacts, the jar and the were-jaguar metate, were stored aboard a helicopter.
Though I had anticipated a slightly longer stay, as I watched these activities I was suddenly told my ticket out of the jungle was the third helicopter, departing within the minute. Once again I had to seize my pack and scramble out of T1 in a hurry, with little time to wax sentimental. Soon we were aloft, sweeping above the treetops, heading for Catacamas. It would be my last visit to the valley.
When we arrived at the airstrip, everything was set up for an important national ceremony. A tent was pitched behind the lab, with chairs, loudspeakers, wide-screen televisions, and food. The informality of the jungle vanished in a sea of military officers, dignitaries, ministers, and press. With pomp and fanfare the crates were taken out of the helicopters and carried down the tarmac, parade-style, between lines of Honduran press and distinguished guests. As a flat-panel screen played a stirring video, Chris and an assistant, wearing latex gloves, unpacked the two artifacts and arranged them in museum cases on the stage, specially built to receive them. The were-jaguar metate sat on one side and the vulture jar on the other. When they were fixed in their cases and the glass tops put back on, the audience applauded the artifacts.