The Curse of the Lost White City

by James Gray

  “So it’s logical to assume that Ciudad Blanca must have been built on one of these rivers.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “This means we could take a boat up there. That would make things a lot easier than hacking our way through the jungle.”

  We looked over the map and studied various possibilities. But it was just a map and we were still in Québec City with nothing solid to go on.

  “What’s the best time of year to travel there?” asked Eddy.

  “It’s hot and humid all year long, especially from May to November.”

  “And the rainy season?”

  “Rainy season? It’s deluge season. October and November can be pretty bad; it can rain nonstop for days. It’s impressive.”

  “What’s the vegetation like?”

  “It’s pretty dense, but I’ll read you a rapid description that I wrote down the other day. Look, I’ve learned to write with my left hand. Quite a difference, eh?” I leafed through the pages in my notebook. It was strange because ever since I had changed hands, my handwriting was really different.

  “Ah, here it is. ‘La Mosquitia is part of the largest surviving area of undisturbed tropical rain forest in Central America. Most of the territory is a very hot and humid plain, crossed by numerous streams and rivers including the Plátano, Patuca, Waruna, and Coco rivers. A forest-covered mountainous region is found inland. La Mosquitia is a main route for drug trafficking from Colombia and is accessible primarily by water and air.’”

  At that instant, a boom came from the street below. Eddy got up and went over to the window and looked down to where the snow crew was trying to clean up the mess in the street. A big snowplow was using its shovel to push the snow that blocked the lane in front of the building.

  “They don’t have to dig up artifacts to get rich,” I said. “It’s shovelling snow that pays the big bucks here in this city.”

  My Innu friend agreed, stretched, came back and sat down at the table. “Go on, tell me more,” he said.

  “Okay, wait a second.” I turned a few pages and came across more description. “Okay, this is interesting. ‘There are more than three hundred species of birds, jaguars, ocelots, tapir, monkeys, puma, deer, giant anteaters, crocodiles, iguana, and loggerhead and leatherback turtle.’”

  “Well, we won’t die from hunger, that’s for sure.”

  “Have you ever eaten iguana?”

  “Never, and I don’t really fancy it, either.”

  “Oh, and there’s another thing I read: There are lots of snakes.”

  “I hate snakes,” said Eddy.

  “Too bad, because there are pit vipers, barbe amario, rattlers, boas, anacondas and the two-step.”

  “Two-step?”

  “That’s right, but it’s not some kind of polka dance; it’s a deadly viper. After its bite, you just have time to take two steps before you keel over and drop dead.”

  “Pleasant thought. What else?”

  “The people who live there are the Miskito, the Tawahka and the Paya or Pech. There is also a small Garifuna community that lives along the coast. They are of Afro-Caribbean descent. The Miskito are the largest tribe. In the old days, it was the Paya who built the temples and the cities; these people were an offshoot of the Maya. The isolated Tawahka live at the south-eastern edge. They live off the land or from fishing.”

  “Lots of poverty, I bet.”

  “Sure, but they have managed to preserve their land and culture there more than any other place in Central America. Their isolation has been their best protection.”

  “Same thing as the Innu here in Québec,” mused Eddy. “And did you find anything new about Ciudad Blanca?”

  “For what it’s worth, there are many different legends about Ciudad Blanca. The place was one of the last cities of the great Quetzalcoatl Kingdom that thrived throughout Central America centuries ago. This was a culture that was extremely wealthy, and gold was a real commodity used by artists to fabricate all kinds of objects.”

  “This is amazing stuff: ‘The legend of the fabulous Lost City of Honduras was first recorded by Hernán Cortés. In 1526, less than five years after vanquishing the Aztecs, he went to the colonial town of Trujillo, on the north coast of Honduras, to look for the fabled town of Hueitapalán. Hueitapalán means old land of red earth. Cortés’ search marks the beginning of the Ciudad Blanca legend, as well as the first of many failed attempts to find the ruins.’” I flipped through some more pages and came across some information that I had collected a few days before:

  “Here is another interesting piece that I found: ‘In the year 1544, Bishop Cristóbal de Pedraza, the Bishop of Honduras, wrote a letter to the King of Spain describing an arduous trip to the edge of the jungle. He described looking east from a mountaintop into unexplored territory, where he saw a large city in one of the river valleys that cut through the Mosquito Coast. The native people of that area said that east of the San Pablo Sierra existed a land called Veragua where there was a city that was populated by goldsmiths. This seems to confirm the legend of a mysterious lost city filled with treasure.’”

  “Hmmm, more stories about gold. Every time you describe a new legend, it mentions gold,” Eddy commented.

  “Yeah, gold is everywhere. It’s hard to imagine.”

  I continued reading.

  “Quetzalcoatl, god of the sky, was once considered a great legislator. He organized the original cosmos and participated in the creation and destruction of various world periods. Quetzalcoatl ruled the fifth world and created the humans of that era by descending to Mictlan, the underworld, gathering the bones of the human beings of the previous epochs, and sprinkling his own blood upon them. He is also a god of the great winds. As the father of culture, he introduced agriculture and the calendar. According to yet another tradition, he left on a raft of snakes over the sea. In any case, what is important is that Quetzalcoatl had light skin and a beard.”

  “Light-skinned with a beard. That sounds kind of strange. Did Vikings go that far south?” asked Eddy.

  “Anything is possible, but according to these ancient writings, this man-god and his disciples were said to have come from a race of white-skinned people. Who knows? Maybe they were survivors of the lost continent of Atlantis. When the Spanish conqueror Hernán Cortés appeared in 1519, the Aztec king, Montezuma II, was easily convinced that Cortés was in fact the returning god Quetzalcoatl.”

  “So I guess he had the key to the city, lucky man.”

  “Since then, the legend has continued to grow. Jungle travellers, including hunters and pilots, have occasionally reported a large area of overgrown ruins in La Mosquitia. Several explorers launched expeditions to find the city, and some thought they did. In 1939, for example, explorer Theodore Morde, who may have had ties to the CIA, supposedly found Ciudad Blanca, and later wrote a bizarre travelogue called Lost City of the Monkey God just before dying. Even his death is a little foggy. Some people say that he was run over by an automobile in London, England. Others say that he committed suicide. Any way you look at it, the guy is as dead as a door nail and can’t help us.”

  “Maybe the place really does have a curse, after all,” said Eddy.

  “Could be.” I continued, “Here’s something about the wind gods. According to a certain Lazaro Flores, a Honduran anthropologist, the native Pech people say that the citizens of Ciudad Blanca were allied with the spirits of the great storms. The Monkey God, who is supposed to be one of the principal symbols found within the ruins, is this type of storm god. In other words, when the place is disturbed by unwanted intruders, all hell breaks loose.”

  “A good reason to be careful,” Eddy mused.

  “Yeah, it seems that local aboriginals prefer not to talk about the Ciudad Blanca. They say that the placed is cursed.”

  “And it seems like they want it to stay cursed if you ask me.”

  “Yeah, it seems so.”

  “You believe in the supernatural?”

  “I’
m beginning to. What about you?”

  “Sure, the invisible world has always been part of Indian culture. Besides, it’s good intrigue for the documentary.”

  “It sure is, but besides that, here’s something else to think about. For the last fifty years, there has been a great deal of looting in dozens of archaeological sites all over Central America. That’s the heart of the subject. Looters work with anything from picks and shovels, to tractors and explosives — even helicopters. These days, pilfered objects can range from portable artifacts to huge stone sculptures, which are sawed into slabs, taken out and then exported all over the world.”

  Eddy looked at me with a smile. “Indiana Jones, all over again. It’s going to be an amazing documentary. We just have to complete the financing.”

  Every film project needs a producer and each has his own way to work. Eddy knew the ropes as well as anyone. I had no doubts about that. However he was a purist, worked alone, and often took a while to get a film into production.

  That night, I spent hours jotting down more notes and thinking about the film. We had to find a story, something that would hold the whole thing together, and time was going by way too quickly for my liking. We had a hot subject, but at the rate we were going, we would be forced to begin shooting in the rainy season. That would make things even more difficult, but on the upside, I figured the rain would add atmosphere to this crazy adventure.

  Over the next week, Eddy knocked on doors to find financing. Now he was waiting for word from the agency people who held the real purse strings to get the project rolling. At the same time, I worked long hours on a project synopsis that would explain exactly what we planned to do out there. Would it be a film about the international trafficking of Mayan artifacts taken from La Mosquitia, or a jungle expedition into the Biosphere, or a travelogue up a river à la Heart of Darkness? In the end, it always came back to the same thing: We had to locate the damn place. Maybe just finding the place would make a good start. We’d deal with the rest afterwards.

  I was still awaiting a call from Valeska, and her long silence was making me nervous. The phone rang late one night, and for a second I was sure it was her. I was wrong.

  “Kwei, kwei!”

  I was surprised at Eddy’s late night call. “Kwei, kwei to you too, pal. What’s up?”

  “I can’t sleep,” he said.

  “Neither can I. There’s just too much going on right now.”

  “I’ve got some more information that I think you’ll get off on.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I heard through the Indian telegraph that there’s a guy in town this week with a whole bunch of Latin American connections who deals in artifacts on the black market. Maybe he’s worth meeting. You know, explain that you’re looking for something special. Perhaps we could meet the guy together and film the conversation with a hidden camera, the way we filmed developers from Hydro-Québec trying to make a crooked deal during the days of the Great Whale Hydroelectric project. A company in town has a camera that they rent out that’s even better than the one we used. The quality has improved a lot since the last time we worked together, you’d be surprised.”

  I didn’t need much coaxing. “Well, let’s rent one for a few days. I can’t wait to get into action.”

  “Okay, I’ll set up a meeting through my Mohawk friends. The dealer is staying at none other than the Hotel Château Frontenac.”

  “Great, that’s just next door.”

  I appreciated the way Eddy always liked walking a tightrope. Meeting a perfect stranger in a hotel room with a hidden camera needed a lot of cool.

  Three days later, Eddy and I were inside a chic and brassy Château Frontenac elevator. We were on our way to Room 1503, where we were to meet a contact who thought we were buyers. I had a miniature fiber optics camera in an attaché case. The lens that was built into the bottom looked exactly like a small metal stud. It was well camouflaged, and so was the microphone.

  “Nothing but the best,” Eddy said as he looked at my case. It was crafted from expensive leather and went well with the suit I was wearing — which I had borrowed from the department store Simons. A soft bell rang and the elevator stopped gently at the top floor.

  I switched on the camera. “Okay, rolling.”

  “Let’s have some fun.”

  The brass doors slid open and we turned down the posh hallway toward Room 1503. We both felt a little out of place and nervous. I knocked on the door, waited and then tried again. I had the strange feeling that someone was looking at us through the fisheye. The door opened slowly and we came face to face with a chubby man with a short graying beard and tinted eyeglasses.

  “Gentlemen, please come in. I’m Boris Gulkin. I have been expecting you. I hope that you men like coffee? I’ve ordered a fresh pot.”

  Gulkin was all smiles and spoke with a heavy accent. Another Russian, I said to myself. It must be my new karma.

  “Fontaine is my name,” said Eddy. “And this is my associate Mr. Fortin.”

  Gulkin smelled like he had just fallen into a vat of potent aftershave. What was it with these Russians, anyway? If we had been outdoors, I would have stayed on the windward side. Gulkin’s palm was sweaty when he shook my hand. We crossed the large room to sit at a beautiful antique table placed in front of a king-sized canopy bed. The view of the Saint Lawrence River was splendid. I placed my attaché case in front of me with the business end pointing toward the Russian. After exchanging a few pleasantries, he didn’t waste time.

  “Mr. Fontaine informs me that you’re in the movie business. Internationally?”

  “Exactly, I produce films.” Eddy and I had cooked up my story and fake name the previous day.

  “Pornography?” he queried with a smile.

  “Yes, but it’s up and down these days.” I looked over at Eddy.

  “It’s big business in Russia.”

  “And growing,” I added for good measure. Everybody laughed.

  There was a knock at the door and a waiter in a black monkey suit and bow tie came in pushing a cart with a silver coffee pot and three sets of porcelain cups and saucers. As we served ourselves, I explained that I was building a big house on Île d’Orléans near Québec City. Soon it would be time to decorate.

  “What exactly are you looking for?”

  “My dear wife is Peruvian and is rather eccentric. She wants authentic Maya carvings to adorn the area surrounding our pool and flower gardens.”

  The Russian smiled, sat back and thought for a few seconds. “I may have something very nice, sir. It would be pre-Colombian of course, from Central America. These are beautiful items, very popular with my best clients.” He began to look through his laptop. “I have ceramics, jade, gold plates, boulders with petroglyphs and animal sculptures. I can even get a slab, if you desire.”

  “You have slabs?” I asked.

  “Yes, my friend — Mister … excuse me, I’ve forgotten your name.”

  “Fortin, Michael Fortin.”

  “Da, da, Mr. Fortin. A slab, meaning a piece of stone carved with hieroglyphs, or perhaps you would prefer carvings?”

  “Well, perhaps both.”

  “Excellent. My specialists can cut them from a new location where we are working. In fact, I can acquire a big stone column depicting a man in a feathered costume. It’s believed to be about thirteen hundred years old. It’s about nine feet high, a real masterpiece. This is a bit more complicated because of its size, but this is what everyone is looking for these days. I’m sure that a woman such as your wife has excellent taste in art.”

  “Yes, she certainly has good taste. The more expensive, the better.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s normal for a woman.” Gulkin laughed. “Here are a few examples of what we have to offer.”

  Eddy and I moved around to his side of the table and watched him flash through a dozen images on his laptop.

  “I can get you all kinds of things like these; they are all authentic, trust me. This is my busin
ess. I’m a professional, one of the best. I don’t cheat anybody. I think that you need an agent like me just for your own security. Do you know what I mean? You pay one-third of the cost up front and the rest when the goods arrive.”

  I played along some more. “Taking this out of a country is illegal, isn’t it?”

  “In Central America, there are two kinds of people who take out valuables. The looters, who will uncover a site and then work there for months — they are concerned with removing only the most valuable pieces, like gold, jade and precious stones. The rest is often destroyed because they work with crude picks and shovels. They’re like animals. Then, there are the archaeologists who spend months digging in these places living off public money. They aren’t saints either. They have a reputation for keeping the nicest pieces for themselves. I consider my business to be the best of all evils. My crews take their time, saving the most beautiful pieces for export. We don’t destroy a thing. Messieurs, I am a man who cares about artistic value. I feel I’m doing a great service to humanity, and I work hard for my money, however modest it may be. As for prices, my friend, like anything else, it depends what you want to buy. Now for starters, what about several good-sized stones with carvings and five or six small petroglyphs, maybe some like these?” He scrolled through various photos on his laptop. They were of magnificent pieces, artifacts of all sizes and shapes.

  “This sculpture costs about $120,000 and weighs about two hundred kilos,” he said. “Transportation is extra, obviously, but I could throw in some extra pottery and masks as well. If you want a bigger slab, you pay more. All my pieces are exceptional.”

  “And how much would that be?” I pointed to an intricate stone calendar.

  “Very expensive! It is written clearly on it that the world will come to an end sometime soon, but you will have to buy the piece to find out exactly when. Better hurry up and enjoy it now while you can. Da. We have to bring these things here plus pay a few people to look the other way. I’m being honest with you. You’re getting a great deal.”