On Graves & Grave Robbing
From the very beginning of my expeditionary ramblings I’ve had a desire, small at first, but always niggling, to discover and pilfer an ancient grave. Nothing morbid mind you. It’s just that I figure, once they’re gone well, they’re gone. No sense fussing over the sensibilities of someone who’s not there. Right? Nevertheless, with due respect for the living I’ve refrained from overt body snatching and even though I’ve developed a keen interest in digging up stuff that’s not mine, I’ve held back…for the most part. You see, I’m really not afraid of ghosts and the like and since I swore off curses and cursing (for the most part) a long time ago I always assumed that I would be a good candidate for entering the tomb and bringing to light the treasures long hid with the mummy. The exposed above-ground sepulchers common in the little mountain village that was my haunt for a few years were tempting. There I found myself torn between the potential for the proverbial hot tamales hitting the fan (If I got caught) and, the easy pickins’ these weathered adobe / brick ruins offered. I did broach the subject a time or two with some native confidants and was met with withering stares and disbelief . So, this desire was put on the back burner, until...
We arrived on a large island not far from the Honduran mainland. It was a diver’s paradise and a smuggler’s haven. Stories of pirates, old and new, abound and surrounding the big island there are dozens of small atolls that lie just north of the infamous Mosquito Coast region of central America. The natives are descendants of slaves and their speech is seasoned with old English expressions like "smoke" and "thunder" and a distinct Caribbean accent. The pigeon English spoken there can be understood when it’s directed at you but as soon as one islander addresses another it’s almost completely unintelligible,
man.
Dan was an Anglo transplant that had helped develop a champion soccer team and a medical clinic on one of the populated islands near Roatan. He was a local legend of sorts and had garnered the respect of most people on the island…on both sides of the law. As a favor to him and his buddy “Paco”, two men invited us to explore some caves that had never been entered by expeditionaries like ourselves …not to mention lesser explorers like anthropologists and archeologists. These two non Spanish speaking citizens of Honduras owned plots of land on a remote hillside where they grew bananas and harvested wild-grown fruit and …yabba ding dings. The ancient peoples that populated these islands left lots of ruins- pottery, jade, shell and coral stuff. Figurines and pots and all kinds of neat artifacts lay exposed to the sun and free for the taking. Every passing hurricane unearths more. It really is a gold mine for the local government and their associated museums, archeologists etc. They call the findings yabba ding ding.
Hot jungle. Need I say more? If you haven’t been in one you can imagine the fourth of July in southern Missouri. We slashed through vines, large-leafed undergrowth and side-stepped tar pits and quicksand while slipping down steep hillsides and losing our footing for slapping at the ever-present flying, biting, stinging bugs. Finally we came to a small opening in the ground at the base of an old gnarled tree. It looked to be little more than a rodent hole but as we pushed away thick foliage the entrance grew and beckoned us to enter with the distinct smell of bat guano and the cool moist aroma of a deep cave. I could tell our native guides were frightened. They had been speaking rapidly and excitedly as we neared the burial cave but now as we were about to enter they were all but silent. A few grunts, a few nods that gestured toward the opening and a reticent acquiescence to us non-superstitious expeditionaries. To understand their reluctance at this point it would be good to remember just how big a role folklore and beliefs in spirits and superstitions play in most non western cultures. This place was no different. A typical islander would hardly dare to walk a path where a ghost had been spied five months earlier, let alone disturb his ancestor’s rest by violating a sacred tomb like we were about to. Well, I always figured Indiana Jones to be somewhat of a roll model and so, superstitions be danged, we went on in.
Crawling on our bellies at first, we were finally able to stand, albeit crouched over, and fight off a few stray bats angry that the midday ruckus had interrupted their upside-down sleep . Light from both our flashlights and a long vertical shaft that let in the sun at just the right hour illuminated ancient burial piers. The bones were bleached white and if they were indeed what they appeared to be, these were 3000 years old remains of Paya Indians. Surrounding the skeletons were lots of little clay figures and some more elaborate ones made of stone and what appeared to be jade. We dug a little and unearthed more bones and stuff apparently burried by wild dogs or foxes. No gold or silver to be found in this cave nor in another further up the hill where we found similarly undisturbed bones and figurines of an ancient people. With nothing to take as real loot that could get me some serious jail-time in a third-world prison, I decided I had only one choice. I grabbed the smallest skull and made for the entrance, my mind already replaying and recounting the day’s events to an imaginary future audience sitting at my hearth being regaled by my first-hand accounts of Caribbean adventure, the jewel encrusted (I would do that later for effect) cranium looking down approvingly from the mantle. My little reverie was broken by squeals of fear. “Paco man, what you be doin’ ,man? Put ‘im back! Please put ‘im back man. We don’t want to be wakin’ ‘im up, man. My companions trembling as they implored me to return the remains. Something about curses and headless corpses and ghosts and well,… I put ‘im back, man.
