Central American Epilogue

Not enough time has really passed for me to fully process the experience into the event that it will be in my memory, that is, I'm still living it out. Also, to say that we experienced Central America is somewhat misleading, since we only covered a few hundred miles between two countries, leaving adventures in Nicaragua for later.

I was, though, inspired to look at the price of land. Just to know. Just curiosity getting the best of me.

So this isn't really an epilogue. I couldn't really name the final post in my "Blonde Giants in the Mayan Jungle" series 'Last Post in blah-blah-blah Series', but I did anyway, just switching "last" with "epilogue".

An epilogue would tie up all the feelings incurred during an experience with an overarching theme. I'm just not prepared to do that yet. Later, sure, most likely, but now? I'm only a few days removed from my bowel issues, so, in that way I'm only just done experiencing this trip.

So, instead of philosophical discussions, ala our trip to Chicago in 2009, I'm just going to display some pictures that struck me as important to our experience of this trip but that haven't made it to any posts thus far.

So here we go.

This is second picture I took on the entire trip, riding in a cab as we left the airport. It is a picture of the national beer of Guatemala's logo, Gallo, the rooster. This image is everywhere in Guatemala, like Heineken and Amstel signage all over Amsterdam.



This is my "speeding through a Central American city" picture. I went with a different picture of Guatemala City, but I like this picture more (it had too much color, and I was going for the drab look in the other post).



This is a cool palm at the hotel we stayed at in Rio Hondo.



Here's a different picture of the market at Chiquimula in Guatemala. This picture, while more colorful, doesn't capture the chaos that I wanted to convey with the picture I chose for that particular post.



This is a picture of a steep street in Copan, so steep that they need strafing on the stamped concrete to keep cars from sliding during the rain. Actually, it's needed for the dry season as well; we saw a car struggle with it during a sunny day, which led me to think it may be too treacherous in the rain, but if anything this experience has taught us that people just do what needs to get done.



This picture of a macaw at the ruins site was somehow missed my first go around. So...not sure how that happened. I guess I was too enamored with the flapping look of the wings to find a better picture.



Another "dammit" moment, this is one of my favorite pictures from the ruins that I somehow missed.



Picture 5000 on my point and shoot camera. 5000 pictures from September 2010, right as we moved into a new apartment in Austin and before we traveled to California for a wedding. The hieroglyphic stairs from underneath the tent.



One more "how did I miss this picture" entry. Actually, I had planned to include this one, I just forgot. I remember reading over the post just recently, and said to myself where's that one picture? Whoops.



Cool shot of the volcano and clouds looming over Antigua.



At some point I'll have better, more nuanced things to say about the experience. I was thinking that the Midwest trip in 2009 was easier to wrap my head around at that time because 1) it's a different version of America, and that was easier for me to deal with, since I was used to viewing "different versions of America" and writing specifically about that; and 2) I was out of work and had more time to sit and work it out quickly.

So...awesome. Go somewhere wild and chew the scenery.

Antigua Guatemala

We jetted out to Antigua after negotiating the last of our American dollars for the return trip in a private car...needed to make that flight.

The Spanish founded a capital city in 1524 for their Central American department. It was called, in shorthand form, Santiago--or "St. James". The long form was something like Ciudad de Santiago de los Caballeros de Goathemalan, or the "City of St. James of the Knights of Guatemala". Most people just called it Santiago.

After numerous attacks by the native peoples who lived right there where the Spanish founded their city, the Spanish moved the city.

A few miles away.

The new capital, also named Santiago et al, was this time beset by volcano and earthquake, was destroyed, and the Spanish moved again.

By 1527 they settled on a third site, and this site stuck. For a while. At some point the name "Santiago" started to become interchangeable with "Guatemala", and the occasional "Guatemala City" (well, Ciudad Guathemala, but you get the idea).

Earthquakes and volcanic activity did its share of damage, and by 1715, the thought of a new capital for the Central American department became a necessity. In the year 1776, the Spanish crown declared the the city be abandoned, and all the important departments and services move to the new site, about fifty kilometers away down the mountain, farther away from the volcano.

The city sat mostly abandoned for decades.

At one point, in the 1680s, the city was the richest colonial town in the entire Americas. Within a hundred years it was mandated abandoned. Fucking Spanish.

The new city that was formed when they left Guatemala City was called, maybe you can guess, Guatemala City. Today's Guatemala City is the sprawling metropolis that wasn't destroyed by earthquake, volcano, or uprising. After the move people referred to the old Guatemala City as, well, Old Guatemala City. Eventually, as it was repopulated over the centuries, it just became known as "Old", or, depending on the translation, "Ancient". Hence, the name we know the the city today: Antigua, Spanish for "ancient".

By the time we made it to the city school was letting out, we only had a few hours to spend trying to soak it in (that was plenty), and my, er, bowel situation had finally become just that--a conscious need to be near a porcelain depository for more than hourly deposits. The discomfort in my belly area was noticeable; the constant pressure like a person standing on my stomach was more annoying than painful, but the occasional bad pressure, like someone grinding their heel on me, while brief, was lame.

But, for people like Corrie and me, a few hours in Antigua is more than enough. We saw the various ruins in the city, we saw the volcano off in the distance, and we paid thirty-damn-American-dollars for appetizers and fruit smoothies at a restaurant.

Here are some pictures of the colorful streets, ruined churches...the volcano. That's Antigua! It struck me the whole time as weird that such a "Jesus"-crazy place wouldn't have done more to fix-up the old churches and cathedrals.

Look how miserable I am, with the volcano in the background. Well, maybe you need to know me to know that's a mixed "loving the time but hating life" look on my face.



This is easily the coolest fountain I've ever seen, and I've been to Rome and Paris and Prague and Florence.



This yellow one wasn't destroyed. I don't remember the name.



I know this and the next shot of ruined churches look similar, but you'll have to take my word for it that they're totally separate spots in the city.



Totally not the same spot as the above picture...



Colorful streets...here the world that people who live here experience is behind those colorful walls. Every once in a while you could, while walking around, catch a glimpse into an interior courtyard and see how the world was quiet and un-cobbled.



Once was enough. I might put up some different pictures at a later date, like maybe some of Corrie's pictures from the market we went to, or some more ruins details, but we'll likely never set foot there again. I don't think I can, or would want to, say that about many of the random places I've been.

Too Early...?

We arranged for a shuttle direct from Copan to Guatemala City. Not to the airport, like we would have liked, but at least to the city. Because of the ridiculous amounts of traffic, we chose the early trip from Copan to Guatemala City. Our flight was leaving at 8 pm, which meant that we should be there by at least 6 pm. The trip from Copan to Guatemala City takes around six hours, and the shuttle choices were 6 am and noon.

If the road work was still mucking up the drive, it would take more than six hours, and we'd still have to get over to the airport from wherever we were dropped off in Guatemala City. In evening rush hour traffic.

We played it safe, and left at 6 am. Of course the roads were super clear and the driver sped like crazy, and we were dropped off at some random restaurant around 11 am. We hadn't realized it was so early, otherwise we would have just ridden along all the way to the shuttle's termination, Antigua, the white-person's tourist destination. There was a gentleman riding from Copan to Antigua.

There were a few problems, though, mainly that a return trip to Guatemala City in the evening from Antigua are harder to arrange than in the opposite direction.

Also, this was about the time that my, eh, dysentery, was kicking in. It probably wasn't dysentery, but I wasn't having such a pleasant final day in Central America, to say the least.

After a quick bite at the restaurant where we were dropped, Corrie haggled rather well with a cabbie (Q 100 down to Q 20)("haggled" might not be the right word--once we figured out what he was telling us, we turned and walked away, then he called us back and told us what he would accept), we made it to the airport before noon, and decided to speed off for an afternoon in Antigua after arranging a private ride back to the airport in time for our flight.

It takes an hour to get from Guatemala City to Antigua, but it seems closer than that. We did make it back in time, and, for the record, international flights from Guatemala City to anywhere are the most painless airport experience I've ever really had (besides the constant feeling that someone was standing on my stomach).

Luna Jaguar Hot Springs

If the coffee plantation was out int the cut, then this hot spring was way out there. We seemed to have to drive for hours (it was probably another half-hour to forty-five minutes out there), up the road away from Copan, bumping and jiving and being tossed all around the backseat of a Dodge minivan.

We arrived at the Luna Jaguar Spa, a hot spring resort that has been carved out of the jungle. It's been set up to resemble an authentic Mayan resort, but of course there's nothing realistic about it's antiquity. The Mayan may have used the hot spring's water for beneficial purposes, but the way it is presented to tourists from all over Central America (and elsewhere) is rather modern and faux-ancient.

It did look pretty cool, though.

You had to cross a bridge to get to the real entrance:



Walking around the site you see where the hot water actually spills from the ground, and away from there, the pools go from scalding to comfortable to uncomfortable to really cold. Here are some pictures.

This is the entrance after the bridge, looking like an old Mayan entryway:



Me in the only pool that was just the right temperature:



Here's a cool sculpture/fountain:



Here's the opening where the super-heated water pours from:



I believe that some of the sculptures could be authentic, which gives an interesting experience to the whole place, a sense of history even if the actual layout is based on new design sensibilities.

After the two hours we spent alone back here (when we arrived we were the only patrons), we slouched and nearly slumbered the entire ride back to Copan, and napped the rest of the day away, after setting up our return trip to Guatemala City.

House in the Honduran Hils

Driving away from the coffee plant Moises took us to a house. We were going on later to a jungle hotspring, but first Moi wanted to show us how either his family, or someone close to his family, lives.

We pulled over, entered the gate and were greeted warmly. This was exactly the kind of experience we were looking for. For next time, this type of place is exactly the kind of place we'd like to stay.



In any case, the family began showing us around. Their home was mud-pack over woven branch. The floor was dirt and the windows had no glass, they were covered in fabric. The doors were similarly non-existent, save for an occasional sheet. They cooked over an open wood burning fire that burned quietly in the corner of the cocina.

We then went on a trip around their property. They grew corn and sugar cane, both seen here:



Bananas:



Coffee for personal use (here're the coffee buds):



Papaya and oranges, flowers for market, and fowl--chickens, turkey, duck, and guinea hen--for market. Some of their lush flower areas:



They had a freshwater creek running through the back of their property, and excellant views facing back towards their house. Check out their fantastic bridge:



It's the irony of the day, of course, that families like these envy us and our "rich American" status: they do quite well for themselves. Sometimes they really just want air-conditioning and washing machines. Sometimes we just want dirt floors and coffee bushes out back.

Here's a shot of the family:



They were gracious and fun, and I send out my thanks.

Guacamaya Organic Coffee Co-Op

The Monday after the Super Bowl, nursing a bit of a headache, I jumped into the back a Dodge minivan with Corrie and we headed out with Moises, our hotelier, driving.

The way itself could be its own piece on this forum, since the road was a single unpaved lane that had occasional spots of river wash-over, such a bumpy route had me worried whether or not the minivan could actually make it.

Off into the hills for a half-hour or so, we pulled into a grassy parking lot surrounded by a warehouse looking building and a smaller, more homey unit.

There was a patch of asphalt, and here Moises begins to explain in Spanish (ours got good enough to understand) the process by which medium cherries become hot brown caffeinated water.



First, the two seeds from the cherries are popped out and set to dry on the asphalt and go through a very quick fermentation process. This process is caused by the sun. See them in a white pile in the above picture.

Then the seeds are put into a large tumbler to dry to 12% internal humidity. The warmth is wood fire provided. From there, Moises showed us how the outer shells easily come off. Here's the tumbler...



...and a pile of bags full of ready-to-shuck beans out of the tumbler:



Like the red skins on peanuts, only tougher to remove, the outer skins get removed by a machine.



After that, a lady pours out a pile of shucked beans onto a table and picks through them, tossing the malformed or discolored beans, leaving only high quality beans for roasting. Here are some ready quality beans.



Here's the roasting unit.



We bought some beans roasted the day we visited. One bag for us, one bag for Norm.

G-MEN! BIG BLUE! In Honduras?

So, when we planned this trip, I never thought that the Giants would be in the Super Bowl. I'm not a super-duper gung-ho NFL fan, but I do love my Giants, and as they marched through the playoffs, I started to think about how cool it would be to experience my team winning the Super Bowl while I watched in another country. See, I was sure if they made it that they'd win.

The Via Via was the place that was going to show it on their big screen TV in their lounge area, right inside the door. Dan and Natasha, our comrades from the horseback ride said they'd stop buy. Even though they were Canadian they had some interest in the game. It looks like it does have some international appeal. We were going to meet Larry and Compton there. Those two had been wagering on the games during the time they'd traveled together. Compton kept taking the Giants (they beat his original playoff team, the Falcons, so he rode them all the way) while Larry would bet on the contrary.

I slept through the first few minutes of the game, but got over there pretty quick, with enough time to see the Giants punt after their first possession. I grabbed a seat on the couch between Larry and Compton, while the other side of the L-shaped couch sat a pair of fans, Baltimore Raven fans, a traveling couple like Corrie and I, only younger and more annoying. For some reason they were loudly rooting for the Patriots. Actually, just the girl was rooting for the Pats, the guy was busy messing around on his iPad.

While Larry was rooting for the Pats, it was more because of his wager. His heart wasn't in it. Compton rooted for the Giants, but not like me. Basically I was the only person there who had their team in the game, and the girl and I were the only ones getting loud.

Corrie showered after our siesta, and then took some pictures, but did float by for the majority of the game.

The first offensive play of the game for the Pats had Justin Tuck, on the Giants defense, forcing Tom Brady to through a horrible pass that resulted in a safety: two points for the Giants on the first play of offense for the Patriots.

I remember thinking right then: the lead my be grow and be lost, but there's no way the Giants lose this game.

The Giants dominated the first half--scoring a touchdown--before the last two series in the last three minutes of the second quarter where the Patriots went up 10-9.

They grew the lead, then they lost it. When the Patriots opened up the second half by marching down the field and scoring, going up 17-9, the girl kissed her boyfriend and declared "It's over!"

I leaned over and calmly--for a change--declared "They're not scoring again. And that won't be enough."

How'd the rest of it go? Field goal-Giants: 17-12. Field goal-Giants: 17-15. Touchdown-Giants (failed two-point conversion): 17-21.

The final score: Giants 21, Patriots 17.

Both the girl and I were on our feet for the last series, those final twenty-seconds where Tom Terrific had a chance with a hail-mary to win the game, but that's a rare turn of luck, something the Pats didn't really have on their side this time around.

The sound had been turned off the entire game, since the feed was in Spanish, and the Via Via had some lounge-moody music going on in the background. Also, because the feed was Spanish, we didn't get any of the fabled Super Bowl Commercials. That part was kinda cool.

On a trip to the bathroom I saw the the Canucks sitting at the bar watching the game on a smaller television. I said hey, and other salutations. I guess I had been so into the game I didn't see them come in.

After the end of the game, when the hail-mary hit the grund, I had a stupid grin on my face for the rest of the evening. Larry congratulated me, because he's a mature person who had a friendly relationship with me. I would have done the same if the tables were turned.

That girl? She might have said something that was concessional, and wasn't as obnoxious as I would have thought.

Here's a semi-blurry shot of our little slice of Super Bowl couch pie. It has all the components; Larry, the spot Corrie'd just vacated to snap the picture, me, Compton, the guy and his iPad, the girl giving me the stink-eye:



Like Corrie's birthday being so far removed from the usual people and activities, I can say that the Super Bowl under similar circumstances was equally cool and unique.

The German Bar

Minutes before the angry gentleman shot his gun into the air, a group of white kids were off from the Via Via (outside of which we were chilling) and headed to the "German Bar". "Are you guys coming?" they asked as they started walking. They weren't our crowd, even if we were closer in age to them than the two fellas we had been hanging with; Larry, in his mid-sixties and from Kentucky, and Compton, a black guy in his mid-fifties from Toronto.

We're closer to them in world view and disposition. We told the youngins to go on ahead, and maybe we'll come by some other time.

The next day, after the horseback ride and before the Super Bowl, we decided to visit this German Bar and check it out for ourselves. We met up with Larry, and he joined us on our little adventure of discovery.

Sol de Copan is name of this establishment. It was started by Tomas Wagner, a German expatriate who has been in Honduras for a few years. He has a family he looks after, and the bar blends two of his passions: providing for that family and brewing beer.

See, Tomas runs the only brew-pub in all of Honduras. His beer, Sol de Copan, is the only micro-beer in the whole country. When we visited he had a Heffeweizen and a Schwarzbier, or "black beer".

Corrie tried the Heffe while Larry and I sampled the black beer. Corrie eventually moved along to the black beer as well.

Tomas was a crack-up. He was 6'2" if he was a foot, and weighed maybe 170; fit tone over bones was this guy, long gray biker-style mustache and a gray ponytail. He was trying to get a bottling deal put together. If I remember correctly (and it wouldn't surprise me if I don't), I think he had a deal worked out with some local restaurants to offer his beer from a tapped keg.

Walking up a long hill will get to this awesome little treasure:



Once you get to the door, you have walk downstairs to get to the bar and restaurant itself:



The spaetzl was good, but my stew wasn't quite done long enough.

The Schwarzbier was excellent, easily the best beer I had throughout this trip.

After leaving, we split with Larry while planning to meet up with him and Compton at the Via Via later for the best (and maybe only) public seats for the Super Bowl. It was siesta time for sure. I napped well that afternoon, nursing my horse-riding regions and full of micro-brew.

Horseback to Destination Toad

The activity we had planned for Super Bowl Sunday, the day after my wife's birthday, was a two fold adventure to an organic coffee plantation and then on to a remote jungle hot spring. When we learned that the plantation wasn't going to be open for show, because the ladies that run it don't work on Sunday, we decided to move those activities to Monday, and do Monday's slightly more leisurely activity on Sunday.

That also made the chances of catching my Giants in the Big Game better, since that leisurely activity was the horseback ride.

The horseback ride through the ruins that we'd originally wanted to do might have been possible fifty years ago, or if you could afford to change the rules, so we instead did that tour on foot, vowing to ride some horses at some point.

We arranged our trip and were joined by another couple, a pair of Canucks, fresh from Ottawa. What is it with us and people from Ottawa? The four of us followed our guide and his son down the street to a field where the caballos were.

The Canadian gentleman's name was Dan (easy for me to remember), and he was bigger than I was. I mention this because when they brought four of the sorriest, broken down looking old mares over in our direction I nodded a little to myself. That white one is Dan's, since it was marginally bigger than the dark, really old looking one. That honey would be sporting me.

Corrie assured me that they weren't ponies, that they were a breed of horse that is somewhat smaller, but not to fret. They're tough and can carry plenty of weight.

Okay.

The first horse I ever remember riding was at Yellowstone (pretty sure) when I was 11. It's name was Satan. I always thought that was pretty cool when I was a kid, and frankly still do. A few years later the second horse I (ever) rode was named Doobie. I remember thinking at the time that these were the two coolest names any kid could get for random horses they assign to him. I took them as good omens, but our journeys were always slow walking in lines to specific vistas and preordained historical conversation pieces.

My horse this day was named Chica Loca, while Corrie had probably the youngest mare; she went by the name Princessa.

The guide and his son, the caballero and caballero-in-training, walked behind us the entire way, making kissing noises, noises that in turn made the horses walk.

This was one of the few times I felt like an asshole tourist--being paraded through Copan's steep cobblestone streets on a horse that slid most of the way down to the bottom. (Another time would be wearing my trekking backpack in Guatemala City trying to make out the number of quetzales I was being charged for street food...way obviously out of place.)

Apparently, Chica Loca was the matriarch, or alpha bitch, or whatever that position is, since she absolutely wouldn't let any of the other horses get in front of her. She'd snap and bite at them; she veer them off the (eventually) dirt path and into bushes; when ever the clip-clopping of a near trotting horse would sound from behind us, she'd take off, lest anyone'd get close.

This was particularly vexing for Dan's white horse, with whom Chica Loca battled most of the trip. That white horse would give up and then go on to bully the other two mares. Or so I heard, since I only saw open dirt road.

The destination of the trip was a tiny village that overlooked some beautiful landscape above Copan and had foot access to the mysterious and ancient sapos, or "toads".

These are some of the oldest sculptures by people who lived in these mountains, carved by the precursors to the Maya.

We didn't end up buying any fabric from the loom shop in town, a very specific way we could have supported their community. We felt bad for that, but only slightly--nothing was quite what we were looking for.

So, here are some pictures from the trip:

From atop Chica Loca...note the lack of other horse's ass in my field of view:



Here's part of the view from the village:



Here's a shot of the main sapo. See the toad?



Here I am with Chica Loca:



Epilogue: When we were walking away from the horses and the trip, Corrie said that she wanted to give Princessa a tip. We'd already given our guide a tip, but Corrie had bonded with her philly and was inspired. I thought it would be cool too, so I decided to join suit, and we set out looking for something sweet to get them, like an apple or a carrot.

We found at a tiny market carrots as big as my wrist, which seemed a little excessive, but then we noticed they had apples. These apples, though, shocked us with their "Washington State" stickers. These were Pacific Northwest apples. That should have been a clue to what followed.

We returned with the apples and found the horses busy eating grass, noshing after a hard day of trekking gringos around the mountains. They turned down the apples--refused to even give them a lick.

Horses that won't eat apples? We couldn't comprehend. But they don't have apples in Honduras naturally--this is shown by the fact they have apples from four thousand miles away flown in. The caballero guide felt bad for us, since we tried to do something nice for the horses, which we gathered he didn't get very often. We kind of laughed and shrugged...not much else you can do at that point.

"The most reckless discharge of a firearm..."

The day had been long and full of history and beauty and humidity. Corrie's birthday trip had been a grand day and rousing success. After a siesta, I put on my tourist pants and re-donned my Mexican tourist shirt and we headed out for dinner.



After a quiet dinner, we returned to our "stoop" across from Don Moises' place. We were hanging out with some of our new pals, a pair of traveling friends who'd met on the road. Our street was narrow, and the cars would pull up and park on the side, making the way through tight.

At one point, similar to other moments, a car pulled up and the driver jumped out to go to the tiny bodega next to where we were sitting. It was where we were buying our beers for the stoop sessions. It was everyone was buying their beers, actually.

Well, this driver blocked a little too much of the road. One car was able to pass, but the next car in line was a bigger truck, and the driver was yelling a bit. It was jovial, but annoyed. Horns started honking.

The minutes ticked off the clock...six...seven...maybe even eight. Voices that were just jokingly mad were becoming the real thing. As we talked we were looking around for the driver. It seemed he was doing something more involved than just getting supplies.

Eventually the guy came out of the bodega. Things didn't look like they were going to go well when I noticed a pistol jutting out of his pants. I shook my head as the truck's driver started mouthing off.

The armed gentleman tossed his gear into his car, then pulled out his pistol, flipped the safety off and brandished it at the trucks tires. This was about three feet away from us. He made motions like he was going to shoot out the tires, then he put the gun back into his pants.

As he was getting into his car, the truck driver yelled something else, maybe something like "That's not a real gun!" or "That's not really loaded!" The guy stopped, pulled out the pistol, and fired four shots straight up into the air.

Some people flinched or took cover. I remained still, but my ears were ringing. It's not that the gun, which was a 9mm, was very loud. They were just pops really, but the concussive nature of the popping hurt everyone's ears.

The guy drove off, and the truck driver tried to reassure us that he knew the other guy, and he was just a joker. But that same driver then just parked instead of going on and continuing with his night's activities.

Corrie said that that had been "the most reckless discharge of a firearm she'd ever seen".

I snatched up one of the shells as a keepsake.

Sculpture Museum and Weary Feet

After walking around the ruins at Copan for four-and-a-half hours, we ventured over to the museum near the entrance of the site. It was an enormous structure with an open roof, turning the entire place into an atrium. It houses a full-size replica of a temple that exists currently under the Acropolis.



Over the generations of use, the Mayans built over temples with newer structures; this led to the tunnel tours I wrote briefly about in the last post. This red temple is still red, but too fragile to allow visitors to view it, so they built a full-scale replica in the museum.

The vast amount of sculptures that have been discovered and recovered from the Copan site, and are not figuratively bolted down, have been moved to the museum. The entrance is like walking into a large gaping maw:



Then the tunnel leading to it resembles a tunnel from other Mayan sites:



This leads to the opening of the atrium and that replica.

We spent another pair of hours walking around here, and by the end, we were done. So, I've got some pictures of some cool things. The first, a larger scale zotz, the leaf nosed bat, the symbol of Copan:



Then there is a really cool water bird with fish, riding a river spirit:



Next we have the symbol/statue from the front of the scribe's quarters. The writers of the Mayan hieroglyphs were a certain breed of citizen, and they all quartered together. This is the scribe, with a pen in one hand and a well in the other:



This is the full-scale replica of a Scarlet Macaw sculpture, and the next is a detail of the smoking jaguar head in his midst. In the jaws of the jaguar, you'll see an arm and hand. This goes back to one of the creation stories of the Mayan, that one of two founding brothers lost an arm to a jaguar, before besting the beast. This scarlet macaw was originally above the ball court. Over the years the overseeing macaw changed and morphed, but remained a staple of their gaming court.




Here I am, in need of a nap. After dinner that night, the evening got a little interesting.