We flew from Roatán to San Pedro Sula in a rickety plane, too small to have a cargo hold. Instead, everyone’s luggage was piled in front of the seats, blocking the only exit from the plane in case of an emergency. But that’s another story.
    In San Pedro Sula, we were met by our prearranged guide to Copán. A long drive, over four hours, but comfortable enough in an air-conditioned four-by-four and through a stunningly exotic landscape. Around us – rolling hills covered in dense, emerald-tinted jungle, alternating with coffee plantations on the lower slopes. Above us –flocks of large birds which, once we saw them by the side of the road tearing into roadkill, we identified as vultures. The national bird of Honduras, our guide commented somewhat sardonically.
    It was early evening by the time we arrived in Copán and the only posada in town. It’s debatable whether Copán was a town or a village in those days, but it did have a main square and a church. And one posada. As our guide informed us on arrival, ‘the only place here good enough for gringos… sorry, I mean foreign tourists.’ If you have a Spanish dictionary handy, you’ll find that the word posada encompasses a wide range of lodgings, including “hotel, inn, rest house or shelter.” I’d go with the last two definitions. It did shelter us from rain, and we had two reasonably good nights of rest, barely inconvenienced by the local insect populations. The attached restaurant, though, and supposedly the best one in town, had a less than varied menu. At least to me, a confirmed non-vegetarian, all of the available dishes were identical regardless of which of the three daily meals they were served at. Corn, prepared in a number of innovative ways, but still basically corn.
    Next morning, after a breakfast of corn, the guide drove us to the ruins, just outside the town. We spent hours there, walking around the vast area with our informed guide. We climbed ancient stairs, peeked into cavities in tall earth mounds which turned out to be hiding not yet excavated buildings, re-enacted a Mayan ballgame in the central court, shuddered as we examined the sacrificial stone platforms and the channels carved to collect the blood. And best of all, there were barely two dozen other visitors. In those days, Copán was very much off the beaten track.
    On our way back, I made a playful comment about how spooky the place must appear at night, with the ghosts of old Mayans forlornly wandering about or sacrificing each other.
    ‘Oh, no, it’s beautiful,’ our guide said. ‘Very peaceful and fireflies everywhere. Would you like to go there tonight? With only the three of us, you’d have the place to yourselves.’
    Of course we wanted to do it! We agreed enthusiastically, then he surprised and delighted us even more: ‘Do you ride? The best way to experience it at night is on horseback.’
    Neither of us had much experience with horses. Sure, we’d both tried it a few times, but we were anything but skilled riders. Still, it was such a romantic notion – the two of us slowly riding side by side in moonlight, among centuries-old ruins – that we didn’t hesitate.
    ‘Good. I’ll pick you up after dinner.’
    Back in town, we went to a nearby bar that we’d discovered the previous evening. A local place, with no tourists but live music and an extensive selection of alcoholic beverages –similarly to our posada, you could have anything you wanted as long as the main ingredient was tequila. Well, that night there were two tourists, a Dutch couple even younger than us, as we found out over several expertly made margaritas. They’d arrived a couple of hours earlier, checked in to “our” posada, and were looking forward to seeing the ruins the next day.
    On my fourth, or maybe fifth margarita, loving the world and everyone in it, I asked if they wanted to join us for the night ride. The girl was very hesitant, having never been close enough to touch a horse, let alone sit on one. Neither had her boyfriend, but he was as reckless and adventurous as I was, and he convinced her. I had the posada proprietor call the guide and tell him that we’ll need two more horses, not a problem, these people are experienced.
    Our guide was waiting as we came out after the dinner, five horses saddled and tethered to a nearby tree. Horses? They looked more like overgrown circus ponies to me, with their short legs and stocky bodies. And jittery, twitching and bumping into each other as they eyed us suspiciously. Nothing like the impressive, elegant and composed animals I remembered from my youth.
    ‘At least they’re not very tall,’ my wife whispered to me, ‘in case we fall off.’
    ‘We’ll take the scenic route, along the creek,’ the guide told us after we’d mounted the horses and found the least uncomfortable positions on the lumpy saddles.
    We set off after him, on a cobbled street still slick and shiny after the brief rain earlier, riding with our heads high, feeling like protagonists in a Sergio Leone movie (I know I did)  and on top of the world. Well, maybe not the Dutch girl. She wanted to enjoy this but was palpably nervous, with a strained smile that looked more like a rictus.
    Maybe it was fate, then, or just her horse having a good laugh as it caught the whiff of fear coming from her. As we went downhill, towards the creek, it slipped and landed on its arse. She screamed, and screamed, and amazingly managed to remain seated, holding tightly on to the horse’s neck as if her life depended on it. No worries. The horse pulled itself up, as if nothing had happened, her boyfriend somehow managed to stop her from walking back to the posada, and we could already hear the sound of water ahead of us.
    The creek, barely ten metres across but the black water moving rapidly, definitely looked uninviting, and there was no visible path along its shore. At least not on our side. That’s when the guide turned around and casually informed us that ‘we’ll cross here and pick up the trail on the other shore. It’s not very deep and these horses have done it before.’
    The four of us looked at him incredulously, than at each other. Crossing a fast river at night, on a horse, with a lunatic as a guide and impenetrable jungle on the other side, with fuck knows what wild animals – or wild people, we’d seen a few – waiting to ambush us? Were I to experience that situation today, mature and wise as I am, I’d have been the first to dismount and ask if anyone wants to join me for drinks in the hotel. And I’d have missed one of the most magical nights in my life.
    Yes, we did get wet crossing the creek, but it was worth it. There was indeed a track on the other side, with the night sky nearly hidden from us by the impenetrable canopy above. Yet our path was illuminated by thousands of fireflies in the bushes. As we came out in the open, the twinkling of the fireflies was matched by the myriads of stars in a perfectly clear sky. Looking with unfocused eyes, it appeared as a tapestry of sparkling lights only broken by silhouettes of ruins and gnarled trees, as if the stars had spilled over from the skies and got scattered all over the earth.
    By the time we’d done one round among the ruins, we were sore from the saddles and had had enough. None of us relished getting wet again so I suggested to the guide that we return along the road. With barely any traffic in daytime, we were unlikely to meet any vehicle at night. I was right, nevertheless it was a mistake.
    Throughout our ride, the horses were getting increasingly restless, snorting and shaking their heads with an alarming frequency. Even worse, they seemed to get more and more irritated with each other, particularly my horse and one of its mates, the one that the Dutch girl was riding. Maybe they were unhappy with unpaid overtime. Or maybe they were just fed up with four amateurs wobbling on their backs, insisting on a slow, boring walk. Once we got to the road, the guide spurred his horse, which immediately set of at happy gallop. Seeing this, our steeds made a unanimous decision to follow suit without bothering to ask us for permission. It sounds funny, doesn’t it? I can assure you that we didn’t see it that way. We were holding on for dear life as our horses let go of any inhibitions and bumped into each other, racing down the road. Our guide saved us, making a few sounds from the repertoire of horse control noises that he’d instructed us about before we’d set out. The same sounds that I’d tried without any effect, but maybe I wasn’t assertive enough. Or maybe I lacked the right Spanish pronunciation. Anyway, the horses calmed down. We didn’t, but we were at least back at walking pace. Which was when my horse decided to take a dump. Allowing it to do so was my second mistake.
    The bloody horse veered off to the right without any warning, on to the road verge covered in tall grass and bushes, then raised its tail and shat. I was fine with that. We all need to purge our bowels regularly, and I was impressed with a horse preferring to hide its end product in the grass, instead of leaving a pile on the road. How was I to know that it had transgressed some unwritten equine code and brought down upon itself the ire of its brethren, particularly the one it had jostled with before.
    Finished, the horse turned towards the road and discovered that the return path was blocked by its nemesis. The average, non-confrontational horse would surely walk around the obstacle? Not this one. It went straight ahead, rudely pushing the other horse out of its way. Back on the road, it snorted derisively in the other horse’s direction. Within seconds, we were joined by the Dutch girl and her horse on our right.
    ‘I think our horses like each other,’ she said and put on a brave smile.
    ‘I think not,’ I replied, trying not to sound concerned.
    They started shoving each other, then proceeded to use their heads as battering rams. Then the Dutch girl’s horse got serious. It pulled back the lips and bared its oversized teeth as it turned viciously towards my horse, going for its neck. Realising what was about to happen, I pulled hard on the reins towards my left, hoping to deflect the situation. But my horse was already aware of it and moved forward instead of turning, presenting my thigh as the obvious target.
    Let me assure you – a horse bite is not a laughing matter. It’s fucking painful. My first impression was that I’d got hit by a bloody big sledgehammer. Then the pain set in – imagine a cramp in your thigh that refuses to go away, then think about being on horseback for another half hour before being able to getting off. Once we got back to the posada and I tore off the pants, foregoing the expected exchange of niceties between us and our guide and our Dutch friends, my thigh was a solid black and throbbing in excruciating pain. Thank god for tequila.

‘I hope that you’ve enjoyed our beautiful country and our hospitality,’ the emigration officer smiled at me as he handed back the passport, ‘and will return for more.’
    ‘Maybe sometime in the far future, once pigs learn to fly,’ I muttered to myself, holding the document gingerly in my left hand, three fingers only, as the remaining two were still bandaged and swollen from the infections that persisted despite the huge dose of antibiotics given to me by the doctor on Roatán. And yet, hobbling off to the lounge with the crutch provided by the airport, my thigh looking like an abstract painting in black and purple, I couldn’t stop thinking about the wildlife I’d missed on this trip, wondering if it’s possible to get, in a strictly controlled environment, minor but impressive show-off scars from an encounter with a jaguar, or at a pinch, a baby caiman.