The roads are made of stone. Honduran men stroll casually through the streets. Shielded from the searing sun, their machetes swing step by step, in and out of the circle of shade offered by their cowboy hats. In the center of this charming city there is a gathering point. A small water fountain sits like one of the nearby Mayan ruins- dry but not abandoned. It is surrounded with life: a mother resting while her children race through the square, a young man leaning on his tuk-tuk taxi while potential customers wander by, an occasional passing bell jingling from carts that carry cold ice cream treats for anyone interested.
The air is warm and humid. The sky hints of rain. In this section of town, my eyes are constantly drawn to the strong white Catholic church that watches over the square, while the streets on either side offer their own intrigue. One is lined with restaurants, from street carts to sit down. The other, where the tuk-tuks linger, is less noticeable, but with a bit of waiting a small entrance takes attention. A crowd swells and shrinks, one by one they enter empty handed and exit with small black bags. There are no tickets to go in, no secret code. The only secret is pausing long enough to notice it. I approach, step around and over young girls selling corn tortillas. Then like passing though a C.S. Lewis wardrobe, I enter a world much more vibrant than its door. Bright bananas, ripe red tomatoes, prickly pineapples-everything local and priced to sell.
Copan is enchanting. However, it’s not the reason most people visit. The main reason most people come to this area is tucked twelve walking minutes from town. The reason is the ruins.
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I'm off to see the world. Usually I live in Flagstaff, but now I am on a boat with an old friend. We will be doing good deeds a…
I hit the ground instantly. The force of impact nearly knocked me out. Stunned, I tried to gather and prepare myself for more. I didn’t know how or why, the only thing I was sure of was that I was under attack.
I found myself in a hammock, swinging back and forth between exhaustion and the inability to sleep.
These kids are different. They don’t look different. They don’t act different. They don’t even feel different…but they are. They know they are, which might be the greatest challenge these children ever face. They’re all HIV positive.
I lased up my tenni’s and brushed my teeth. I had no idea what was in store for the day. The rumors were that the ex-president was planning an entry into Honduras, which according to my friend meant protests and manifestations from “Mel” supporters.
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