I come from a small country. A country that has faced different stages in its short life. My family and I often visit the west part of my country, Honduras, an area where the ancient Mayan civilization was established in the early V century AD. It’s probably a short three-hour drive, it’s nothing a snooze on the car ride can’t take. As a child, I was easily impressed when observing the whole region: buildings and locals were very different in comparison to the city I came from. We used to go to the park, where the civilization’s ruins lie. After several recurring explorations, it comes as no surprise that I managed to know my way around them; I’ve seen the edifications three or four times each year ever since I was two. They were the same that
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It wasn’t a big one, or a well-known museum either, but it had enough material in it to attract visitors daily. We went to this place with the intent of seeing an Egypt exhibit, for my grandfather has always had a keen interest in them. However, when we got there, what called my attention was not that Egyptians, but a slightly smaller, yet equally important exhibit about the same ruins I knew by heart. I parted ways with the rest of the crew and started reading about Copan’s ruins, mostly to avoid the Egyptians, but also to have a glimpse of Honduras through foreign eyes. What I read left me agape: They talked about these ruins in a way that sparked curiosity, in a way that sparked attention and passion. They spoke about them as if they were these amazing wonders that everyone had to know about. They described with great detail the figures carved into the rocks, the stairs leading up a pyramid and the sacrificial tables that stood within the temples. What the posters and signs said about these figures held far greater pride than I ever had for them. Not only did I realize that I took them for granted but I also felt guilty about it. I had this treasure a few hours away from my home, and there were people travelling far and wide just to be there. Renowned archeologists visited them to examine in detail the wonders that lied there. And there I was, going so many times per year, and not really appreciating what I
It wasn’t a big one, or a well-known museum either, but it had enough material in it to attract visitors daily. We went to this place with the intent of seeing an Egypt exhibit, for my grandfather has always had a keen interest in them. However, when we got there, what called my attention was not that Egyptians, but a slightly smaller, yet equally important exhibit about the same ruins I knew by heart. I parted ways with the rest of the crew and started reading about Copan’s ruins, mostly to avoid the Egyptians, but also to have a glimpse of Honduras through foreign eyes. What I read left me agape: They talked about these ruins in a way that sparked curiosity, in a way that sparked attention and passion. They spoke about them as if they were these amazing wonders that everyone had to know about. They described with great detail the figures carved into the rocks, the stairs leading up a pyramid and the sacrificial tables that stood within the temples. What the posters and signs said about these figures held far greater pride than I ever had for them. Not only did I realize that I took them for granted but I also felt guilty about it. I had this treasure a few hours away from my home, and there were people travelling far and wide just to be there. Renowned archeologists visited them to examine in detail the wonders that lied there. And there I was, going so many times per year, and not really appreciating what I