Jo loves an ancient site (or ancient shite as I sometimes like to call them) and over the years we have visited a heap of them: The Valley of the Kings and the pyramids of Giza in Egypt (and half a dozen other sites in Egypt), Petra, the ancient Nabataean city in Jordan, the ruins of the Roman city of Ephesus in Turkey (an amazing ruin, vast and incredibly well preserved), and several other Roman ruins in Turkey, the beautiful 4th century BC Greek amphitheatre of Epidaurus in Greece that still seats 14,000 spectators, where we saw an evening performance of Sophocles Electra, the little known underwater temple at Episavros, over which we snorkelled, the massive 1500 year old temple complex of Bagan in Myanmar, the 12th century Hindu Buddhist temple complex of Angkor Wat in Cambodia and the 7th century ancient temple complex of Hampi in Southern India Then there are the dozens of abbeys, castles and great houses in England owned and sometimes despoiled by the National Trust. I’ve been known to visit two stately homes in a day which can mess with your mind.
I’m just pointing out that I have previous here and I don’t feel compelled to visit them all – an impossible task I know but you see what I’m trying to get at. Jo has marched me enthusiastically to scores of lesser ancient shites that are just uninspiring piles of stones. Ancient ruins are wonderful destinations and sometimes the journey to them excels the pleasure derived from the destination, and often, when we get there I’m very happy to be parked in the shade of a Banyan tree with a bottle of water and some fruit, and just left to immerse myself in the atmosphere of the place. The fauna and flora, especially the birds and the trees give me more pleasure than the man-made constructions, however grand and ancient they might be. And then there’s the unexpected treasure – in 2022, driving south through France enroute to Turkey we parked overnight in a woodland clearing next to a stream spanned by a small stone arch bridge. A plaque next to this moss covered bridge declared that it was built by the Romans as part of a track joining two local communities. This simple, unassuming, two thousand year old structure captured my imagination more than any of the vast overcrowded UNESCO attractions swarming with herded, coach loads of chattering, selfie obsessed tourists.
So here we are in Central America: a region inhabited by the Maya people, an ancient civilisation who live in what is now Mexico, Belize, Guatemala, Honduras and El Salvador. The ruins of their ancient cities are spread across all of these countries and Jo wants to see lots of them, especially the great pyramid temples. I do too but not with the same zeal. I sat under a gigantic ceiba tree in Copan Ruinas, Honduras and had a great Mayan experience listening to Frank Zappa’s Chunga’s Revenge on my headphones. The track, The Nancy and Mary Music will forever remind me of Copan.
Frank Zappa is the highlight of my stay in Honduras. My guts have been invaded and occupied by some microscopic gastrointestinal creature that confines me to bed for the duration of our short stay, which includes New Year. My misery is compounded by endless firecrackers, crazed dogs and a terrible karaoke disco in the field next to our residence.
The five hour bus ride from Guatemala City to Copan Ruinas took nine hours and cost us a whacking US$90 each. Some of the thousands of ancient, patched up trucks inevitably break down on the single lane highway and traffic stops. The roads in Honduras are terrible and the transport options over them are similar. Vast swathes of the landscape are beautiful but largely inaccessible mountains, rivers and forests, nobody walks anywhere. We meet a young Flemish barmaid in Copan who couldn’t recommend anywhere worth visiting. There are the Honduras Caribbean islands off the north coast but it’s a devil of a journey to get there. We’re heading back to Guatemala.
We’re getting the hang of Central American food which doesn’t demand a degree in gastronomy. Fundamentally, it’s the same ingredients; one of the three common meats, onions, refried beans, guacamole, tomatoes and cheese, wrapped up in different edible packages; tortillas (often masquerading as chilaquiles, enchiladas quesadillas or tostados), tacos, burritos, tamales. Or the ingredients are heaped over nachos. Basically, everything is a kebab. Other than fresh lime and chillies, flavourings come in bottles. But in the charming colonial town of Antigua, Jo has discovered a delightful, real French restaurant; Tartines, where (I’m still in recovery from gastrobug) I enjoy a proper French onion soup which only the French or a committed Francophile can make.
Our journey through Guatemala is one in pursuit of bodies of water. We start in Antigua which isn’t on the water but feels like it should be, like Venice without the canals where the El Arco De Santa Catalina is a fair impersonation of Venice’s Rialto bridge.
Jo is climbing Pacaya volcano (‘I had a lovely time without you.’ she’ll tell me later.) I’m in search of a cigar. There’s a souvenir shop in downtown Antigua, by the Parque Central, claiming to sell Cuban cigars, but they’re too cheap (US$20 quickly dropping to US$15 with just a raised eyebrow of bargaining) and the packaging is unconvincing. Google sends me to Antigua Cigars on the edge of town which has a smoking room with leather armchairs, occupied by puffing Americans discussing their stock holdings. There’s a fine display of cigars but no Cubans. I ask the female cigar assistant if she has any Cuban cigars. ‘No.’ she says, ‘We don’t import Cuban cigars. They’re way too expensive for the Guatemalan market. Any Cuban cigars you see in Guatemala are fake.’ ‘How about Guatemalan cigars?’ ‘We don’t make cigars in Guatemala, the tobacco is only suitable for cigarettes.’ I say, ‘I don’t see many people smoking anything in Guatemala.’ ‘No.’ she says, ‘It’s never been part of our culture, ever.’
I choose a Nicaraguan half corona for US$7 which she cuts and wraps for me, together with a complimentary box of matches. What a delightful shop. A little further up the road is Antigua Books which has a very good English section. They have a founded or unfounded fear of Anglo Gringo book thieves because the shop assistant hovers closely behind the browsing customers in the English department. I hate that. I never did it in any of my bookshops and I discouraged my staff from doing it. Despite this, it’s a very nice bookstore. I buy an expensive paperback copy of Mario Vargas Llosa’s fine political thriller, Harsh Times, set in Guatemala during the fifties when, following the lie that the country was a nest of commies, the CIA orchestrated the collapse of the democratically elected Guatemala government. Llosa is a Peruvian who was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 2010. What comes across in this tale is the pernicious scheming of the Americans and the atavistic desire of Central American military dictators to fornicate and kill.
For the next stage of our Central American trip please visit Lakes Atitlan and Peten, Guatemala.
