A Lost Doomed City Destined To Not Be Found

Villa Hermosa: Vanished But Not Forgotten

Did we find Villa Hermosa? Indigenous warriors did their part to destroy any evidence of the Spanish settlement. The Spaniards with the knowledge of its exact location died in subsequent battles. The contemporary written record as it exists is sparse and riddled with contradictions. 

Indigenous warriors standing over the body of defeated Spanish conquistador, before wiping out all traces of initial Spanish incursion

Antique map of Honduras dated circa 1614, eight-seven years after the destruction of Villa Hermosa & it's no longer on the map, already forgotten by history

As a historian, I require empirical evidence - facts, hard data, artifacts, verifiable accounts. Something that can be proven over and over. I encountered none of this. Circumstantial evidence suggests that Villa Hermosa was located somewhere below El Boquerón mountain, in the Olancho River valley. This was the area we explored. There are two other possibilities: north of El Boquerón in the Agalta Valley. In this location little gold was found and discovering gold was the primary driving force for the Spanish conquistadors to establish a settlement. The other location: south of El Boquerón near the current small town of San Francisco de Becerra. All the Spanish chronicles mention a “river valley next to a mountain.” San Francisco de Becerra is located near a river but not in a river valley. The nearest mountain is some distance away, El Boquerón. 

Olancho River Valley meets all the criteria as mentioned in Sixteenth & Seventeenth Century Spanish chronicles & manuscripts

Lenca weapons: these are the type of artifacts needed to substantiate claims of Spanish habitation. No Sixteenth Century Spanish artifacts have been found in the Olancho Valley attributed to Villa Hermosa.

In all likelihood, Villa Hermosa was at the foot of El Boquerón, near a source where a great quantity of gold was found, and continues to be unearthed, particularly after heavy rains. The site is next to a water source, something needed to sustain life. If this is the right location, all evidence of the settlement has been obliterated. The attack by regional natives purposely destroyed Villa Hermosa. Indigenous tribes rejected initial Spanish incursions into their territory. They burnt the city to the ground. Over 500 years there has been repeated flooding of the river valley washing away remaining evidence of Spanish habitation. 

The forest & jungle quickly regenerates itself after flooding, concealing what came before

We will never know or discover its exact location based on empirical evidence. It is truly doomed to be lost to history. I believe I was guided by the spirit of Juan de Grijalva to the location of his death. According to all sixteenth century manuscripts, he was brutally slaughtered during the battle at Villa Hermosa that annihilated the city. I made contact with his spirit close to the site where he fought his last battle and was killed. Was this the site of Villa Hermosa? Maybe? There is nothing more definitive, and never will be, that can be claimed. 

Site where I believe my long dead ancestor Juan de Grijalva conveyed a message to me. Is this the location of Villa Hermosa or close to it?

Only the mountains & trees know the true location of this lost city, and they're not telling

So no, we did not find the exact location of Villa Hermosa and no one ever will. I’m convinced in my heart, if not in my mind, the area we surveyed is the site of the long ago sixteenth century Spanish colonial city of Villa Hermosa. Through my discovery, I started a process that at its conclusion will allow Juan de Grijalva’s soul and spirit to rest in peace with his family in his beloved homeland. After all, that was my true goal. The Honduran Expedition has been a success.

Map of Lenca territory in the Sixteenth Century

Statue of Lenca Chief Lempira who led a revolt against the Spanish settlements in Honduras in the Sixteenth Century, soon after the destruction of Villa Hermosa

Two thousand year old Lenca artifacts found in Honduras

Lenca men & woman of today

The Spanish conquistadors are all gone, the Lencas survive

Indigenous people of the Americas continue to struggle & fight in their native lands

A Spirit Cries Out To Me Across Time

Juan de Grijalva’s Final Hours

We are constantly under attack! But we can’t fight back. I kill as many as I can. I kill one and two appear. I kill three and six appear, always replaced by more vicious and stronger of their kind. There is no relief. We are sacrificing our lifeblood on the alter of gold. Crimson blood streaks run down my face, neck and uncovered arms. The air is full of them. It’s a dark cloud from the inferno. Why dear Lord did you create this menace to humankind?
 

Gold plundered from the New World by Spanish Conquistadors

We can tolerate the overwhelming heat that causes trees to bend from exhaustion. The humidity drenches are bodies with hot sweat and can be bore with the idea that the cool evening breeze brings relief. Deprivations of adequate food, a comfortable bed, the soft touch of a loving woman all can be tolerated. The unyielding onslaught of the blood suckers is beyond tolerance. God forgive me, I curse the dreaded mosquitoes!

I slap, smash, squash and they continue their way of dominance. My face is swollen, red and riddled with festering sores from bites. I scratch my neck and the cowards jump and bite the back of my hand. What keeps us going is our quest for the yellow precious metal. What man or woman does not want gold? We can tolerate the pain and irritation three times over, if we find the prize. “Gold, gold, gold!” I shout at the flying insects to keep them away. It doesn’t help. I’m paying the penance for my sin of lusting for gold.

Inca gold salvaged from the looting of the Spanish

Gold Inca mask: The shiny metal drove the conquistadors mad with lust for more

It’s night and time to unwind after sixteen hours working in the river looking for the valuable shiny metal. We’re hot, tired, hungry, irritated and inflamed with insect induced pockmarked faces and necks. We’ve arrived at our Villa Hermosa (Beautiful Town) settlement, content to go indoors to hide from the flying devils. We eat beans and corn tortillas, our meal for the last six months. We talk of home and past adventures. We rest. The crickets chirp as if a chorus of angels are singing for the salvation of the souls of sinners. The constant sound of the river flowing over rocks reminds me of the sound of my galloping horse’s hoofs when hitting the cobblestone streets of Seville, España. The rhythmic sound of leaves rustling in the wind guides me to sleep.

Villa Hermosa was located in what the Spanish explorers named Valle Hermoso (Beautiful Valley)

The Olancho River flowing by Villa Hermosa was rich in gold

Every muscle and tendon finally releases its contractions. I close my eyes and dream of the fame and honor that awaits me upon my return to my beloved España with my pockets overflowing with New World gold. I see my beautiful wife’s smile, hear her joyous laughter, and smell her rose scented skin. I finally relax. I sleep and lustful dreams of . . . . “Ahhhhhhhhh!” 

I’m shaken awake by cries of pain and agony. “Help me dear mother!” cry the dying.

We are under attack!

I grab my hardened Toledo sword. Glistening under the moonlit night, its cold steel steadied in my right hand. How did the intruding natives get into our fortifications and surprise us? To die tonight is a travesty. We’ve found gold today - much gold! I stop thinking as I slash flesh of my enemies. I’m fighting for my life. Yet another Tawahka warrior confronts me with anger and hate in his black eyes. I cut him down with a strike across his chest. Scarlet steaming blood splashes my face. I taste the sour, sweet flesh, similar to the rich taste of roasted pork. I slash again and again . . .  one falls, than another. I lose count.

Toledo steel swords & stone weapons of indigenous fighters

Sixteenth century engraving by Theodor De Bry depicting conquistadors being overwhelmed by a great number of native warriors

I feel a tremendous blow on my back that sends a shock wave through my whole body. I continue to fight for my life. The non stop blows overwhelm me. I fall to my knees. The blows come from every direction and on every part of my body and head. I’m blinded by black burning blood flowing from a gash on my forehead. I’m down on the ground. Help me dear God! Mother!

I fight no more.

I know I’m dying. What of my family and descendants? To die in this far flung, unknown, violent, lonely place was never in my dreams. Who will mourn me and lay me to rest? Who from my family will come and help my soul rest in peace in my native land? Who can I depart my legacy and love? As my mind slips into eternal darkness never to breathe the air of the living those were my last thoughts . . . .

Olancho River runs along the site of Grijalva's final battle

Juan de Grijalva died violently with blood on his hands. His body beaten and desecrated by a resentful, vengeful enemy. It was stripped and robbed of its clothing and repeatedly stabbed by his own sword. His naked cadaver left for wild animals and buzzards to complete the final insult by devouring his flesh and bones. Grijalva’s faithful Spanish compañeros (close friends in arms) escaped in full retreat running for their lives. No one is thinking about burying and praying for the dead. Everyone suffers wounds, some grave and will not last the night.

Spaniards defeated and running for their lives (unknown artist)

The brave strong Tawahka, Pech and Lenca fighters led by Lenca Venito, Lord of Comayagua, burn and destroy all traces of the foreign invaders who speak an unintelligible tongue. The celebration of victory is tempered by the loss of so many of their young heroic warriors. Many of those killed were the best of their tribes. Always the most powerful and courageous die first. By way of eulogy Lord Venito tells his followers that, “We defended our lives, our families, our territory, our way of thinking, of living, our future.”

Royal costume similar to what Lenca Lord Venito wore

Lenca pottery predating Mayan occupation of Honduras

Lenca warriors playing the royal "ball game"

To die for a cause greater than oneself is honorable and will be remembered in the hearts of the living. To die in pursuit of material gain condemns one to roam the netherworld for ages until someone comes to make amends and acknowledges one’s connection to the body of humanity. I accept this heavy responsibility. I acknowledge Juan de Grijalva’s connection to me. We acknowledge that every human being who has ever lived, who lives, and will live are connected. We pay homage to the fraternity of humanity and admit that we are all brothers and sisters.

I perform the first part of a ritual that will symbolically bring Grijalva’s remains to rest with his family. I reverently gather a handful of dark brown soil from the spot where he may have been brutally killed in combat. I say a prayer and ask forgiveness for his transgressions against native people. I beseech that his soul and spirit seek the light. I make a promise and commitment to complete the ritual in his land of birth - Cuéllar, España. I’ll take this hallow earth containing his essence from Honduras and journey a great distance to the cemetery in España, where Juan de Grijalva’s family and other Grijalvas are interred, and solemnly bury it and lay to rest his remains, so that his soul can finally join his family in peace.

I collected hallow earth from this spot where Juan de Grijalva connected with me

Written on March 12, 2016. At El Boquerón, Olancho River Valley, Honduras. The place where my ancestor took his final breath of life. 

Juan de Grijalva, born: Cuéllar, España, 1490 -- died: Olancho, Honduras, 1527. Rest in Peace.

Butterflies announced to me Grijalva's presence

They were of every color

They were everywhere

Wild Mountain of Death & Spirits

El Boquerón
We look for death. My Christian brother, Rigo, picked me up promptly at 9:00 a.m. for the final phase of my search to locate where Juan de Grijalva met his fate, presumably at the lost Spanish city of Villa Hermosa. We traveled east about twenty miles from Juticalpa into the forests of the mountain of El Boquerón. The Oancho River spills from this tall green peak. In the past the river valley witnessed numerous indigenous, Spanish, and modern settlements. All of them wiped out by the angry mountain.

El Boquerón mountain & Olancho River valley

Extreme heavy rains cause the river to swell and overrun its banks. Without notice, the ensuing rushing flood takes homes, livestock, and people into its wet embrace, crushing everything and leaves death, destruction, and dark memories in its wake. Rigo tells me that six to seven years ago after a major deluge seven people were consumed and flushed down the river. Only two bodies were recovered. The other five campesinos were never seen again, as if magical forces disappeared them.

It's the dry season & the river is placid & low, concealing its rage during flooding

El Boquerón is haunted by many souls seeking peace, rest and someone to guide them to the light. My Spanish ancestor is one of these spirits awaiting remembrance and peace. Will he find it? Will he guide me and allow me to connect with his tortured, lingering spirit?

We stopped at a gas station in the small community of San Jorge de Olancho to get exact directions to the entrance of the trail which runs along the river. There we met Erasmo, a humorous, youthful, strong, active gentleman of eighty years old. I noticed that Erasmo was wearing a Sacred Heart of Jesus medallion around his neck outside of his crisply pressed long sleeve dress shirt. I’m wearing a light weight T-shirt and in 90 degrees plus temperature I’ve already soaked my shirt with sweat. There are no beads of perspiration on Erasmo. He looks calm and as if he had just left church services - very formal and well dressed.

Rigo asked Erasmo for directions and immediately felt a kinship. Rigo wears a modest two-inch brown wooden cross around his neck. Sometimes it pops out of his shirt and dangles loosely in the open. He wears it proudly.  Rigo commented to me, “Erasmo is a man who has the Holy Spirit in his heart and soul. A good man who can be trusted.” 

Erasmo (on the left) & Rigo: my two honorable, trusted guides

Erasmo noticed Rigo’s cross and asked him if he studied “scriptures.” Rigo answered that he, “Serves as a deacon in the Catholic church in San Francisco de la Paz and benefits from the opportunity to learn from the Bible.” Without prompting, Erasmo recited from memory a biblical verse about the sanctity of life and the commitment to follow Jesus Christ and to love all of God’s creation. I, an agnostic, was moved and felt something special had come upon me. I was in the presence of a spiritual, holy man. Erasmo said he would come with us to guide us so we wouldn’t get lost. In a land of lawlessness and high crime, where violent murders are common, it’s rare to meet a humble spiritual man of God.

The main trail of El Boquerón is criss crossed by several animal trails. Without a guide experienced with the mountain one can end up going in circles. Someone sent Erasmo to guide us. Was it the Almighty, my lost relative, or both?

Start of the trail with 80 year old Erasmo leading the way

Rigo drove his truck as far as the rough, pot holed dirt road would allow. We crossed the flowing river twice. He stopped the truck and we continued on foot. When we started climbing the side of El Boquerón, Erasmo announced, “This is as far as I can go. You two youths (Rigo is forty, I’m sixty-one) continue on. Always take the trail on the right, staying close to the river.”

Crossing the river in Rigo's truck

Erasmo urged to always "take the trail to the right". What trail?

We climbed and climbed and climbed. The air became thinner, cooler and moist, with a slight breeze blowing off the top of the mountain. The forest was thicker and the trail narrowed. There were no sounds of cars or any modern distractions - no electrical or telephone lines, no houses, cows, or any evidence of human habitation. The only hint that humans had passed this way was the slight dirt trail, no wider than two feet, with jungle branches brushing your arms as you passed by. This environment has not significantly changed since the dawn of human existence. These are the same scenes that Juan de Grijalva witnessed when he passed this way, almost five hundred years ago.

View from partially up the side of El Boquerón

This same view was witnessed by my ancestor Juan de Grijalva

After one hour of hiking, I felt compelled to stop, not because of fatigue. Something prevented me from moving forward. A faint, slim path off the main trail curved down towards the cascading river. I asked Rigo to stop, “I want to explore the riverbank and dip my hands in the water.” Rigo stopped and found a decomposing tree trunk and said, “I’ll sit here in the shade and rest while you go down and look for your “tío” (uncle), “Buena suerte” (good luck).

Area where I felt an unexplainable urge to stop

I scrambled down the thirty foot embankment and found a wide open cleared spot. How odd that in this dense forest there’s a twenty by twenty foot cleared spot. I tip toed from rock to rock to the middle of the waterway. There I found a four foot large gray rock with red ants on it. I brushed the ants away with my hand and sat down in a lotus position. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and remained silent and still. I thought I heard a voice calling to me from the opposite side of the river, away from the side where Rigo was resting, “Manuel, Manuel Grijalva. I’ve been expecting you. At last, you’ve come.”

Rock where I sat, heard a voice & began writing

Delighted that I was able to connect with my "tío"

I opened my eyes and brown leaves were fluttering down from the trees, covering my shoulders. It looked like tears were falling from the blue sky. Birds and crickets commenced a song of jubilation. It was a loud, joyful chorus reminding me of the songs of midnight high mass on Christmas Eve. Numerous butterflies started to dance above the river - some were black with orange tipped wings, others were bright yellow with brown and green strips across their wings, others were bright orange with two yellow ovals resembling eyes on their backs. They arose six inches over the river, circling each other in a figure eight and spiraled upwards to the sky and disappeared in the green and brown foliage of the trees. I smelled decaying wood, sugar pine from the living trees, and earthy dark black mud of the river banks. The flowing water was crystal clear and I saw small three inch gray fish swim by my big rock.

Dancing butterflies disappeared into the leaves of this tree

Not having any idea of what, I began to write . . . . I composed an account of Juan de Grijalva’s final hour of life. He inspired and guided my words. He shared some private counsels he wanted me to bring back to the Grijalva clan. I strongly felt his presence in this place of peace and natural beauty. This is what he related . . . . .

(Continued on the next installment)

The Honduran Expedition: Why am I the only one sweating?

At the river valley we collected wood for Erasmo to use in cooking. Wood is the main fuel used by rural people in Central América for cooking & heating their homes

After our excursion, Erasmo invited us to his home for a cup of excellent coffee & sweet bread

Erasmo raises pigs, chickens & has a subsistence farm where he grows corn, beans, & squash. Native people have been growing these crops for thousands of years in Central América.

A spiritual holy man & his grandchildren

Honduran Wild West

Olancho, Honduras

“If a pretty girl goes to Olancho and a 'narco' (drug trafficker) is enticed with her, he will kidnap her, even if she has a boyfriend or husband, and make her his sex slave” warns dark, long haired attractive Reyna, one of my hosts in Tegucigalpa. “The narcos are in link with criminal gangs. The gangs initiate new members by having them murder someone in cold blood and cut off their head,” cautions Reyna’s daughter. Marta continues, “We’ve never traveled to Olancho because we hear stories of terror and lawlessness. It’s been compared to the U.S. wild west of the 1800’s, with armed men drunk in the street looking for a fight.”

Reyna hosted me in Tegucigalpa

"Wild west" streets of Olancho

 
These stories and reputation of Olancho causes me to take stock and question if I should cancel my expedition to this area of green pine trees, crystal clear waterways, rugged mountains with sheer cliffs, and exotic, colorful rare birds. On my last journey to Honduras, out of fear I aborted a trip to Olancho because of hearing similar accounts of chaos and anarchy. It’s the biggest state in Honduras and the least populated. Are these horror stories true? Are they exaggerations based on factual reports of criminality and disorder?

Juticalpa River runs alongside the city of Juticalpa

The US State Department warns Americans against travel to certain parts of Olancho because of areas controlled by drug lords who established drug networks that bring cocaine from South America to the rest of the world. While many locations and towns are listed, there is no mention of Juticalpa and Catacamas. The lost Spanish pueblo (small town) of Villa Hermosa is theorized to be located between these two modern cities. Can my desire to bring closure and rest to the spirit of my long dead relative, Juan de Grijalva, overcome my terror? I’m sure that the threats and dangers of attacks from natives, deprivations of basic needs like food and water, and travel to the unexplored and unknown were much more grave in Grijalva’s time than today. Without risks there are no rewards. With precautions and prudence onto Olancho to fulfill the summon of my relative to help his soul rest in peace.

Entrance to Juticalpa, Olancho: City of Poets & Writers

View from hill above Juticalpa

Cathedral of "Juti": I saw no drunken gunslingers on the streets

On the three hour bus ride from Tegucigalpa to Juticalpa I met Rigo, a Christian campesino who lives in San Francisco de la Paz, located 20 miles north of Juticalpa and in the danger zone. He tells me that six months ago the military came into Olancho in force and arrested the mayor of Juticalpa, the chief of police and their cronies. The mayor was convicted of being the head of the criminal gang protecting the drug network. They are all in prison. The military continues to patrol and the situation has markedly improved. The people have resumed living a normal life, “Gracias a Diós” (Thanks to God) said Rigo.

Modern bus to Olancho

Military police have a strong presence & keep the bad guys in check

Juticalpa is a midsize town of 130,000 inhabitants. The locals are short, dark skin, brown eyes and display more indigenous features than Spanish. Everyone who I’ve come in contact with is hospitable, curious about me, and laugh easily. They are surprised I’m an “American” and speak Spanish. Many are intrigued by the US presidential election campaigns and wonder aloud, “What’s wrong with the US? Why are they going to elect Donald Trump? We don’t like him and his negative comments about Latinos. He sounds like he doesn’t like anyone except the rich.” I educate them that it’s only the primary season, and even though Trump is “winning”, rest assured the majority of Americans don’t like him and he will never be elected president. (My prognostications are worthless. I didn’t think my beloved country would reelect W for a second term).

Boulevard of the Poets: a busy street leading to the Central Plaza (Is that an American flag?)

Central Plaza is the heart of the city

The Olanchanos are welcoming & playful

As I was taking photos of street scenes, this Olanchana stopped & posed

Only the main boulevards are paved, side streets are cobble stoned

Olanchanos are proud of the region & history, ready to share their knowledge

The main boulevard is lined with small narrow stores

I arrived in Juticalpa as the sun was going down and darkness approached. While hiking with a backpack to the nearest hotel the electrical power went out. I was in total blackness. It was eerie and disconcerting to be walking in the dark in a new, unknown environment. Not a good omen to start my quest in Olancho. I remembered from my past visit to Honduras that the power going out is a common occurrence and not to read anything into it.  Honduras is still a developing country and cannot be considered a modern country. Having electrical power 24 hours is a luxury we take for granted in the U.S..

The first hotel I went to was a slum. I hiked back to the bus terminal and caught a taxi to a modern hotel (Posada del Centro, $27 a night including a full breakfast and most importantly in this hot, humid place, air conditioning.) The next day, I started my research at the Casa de la Cultura (House of Culture) to find the lost city. Located at the Casa is a library devoted to the history of Olancho and staff historians.

Roof top terrace of Hotel Posada del Centro (recommended) where I worked on this blog hanging from a hammock

Study area of the Casa de la Cultura

Interior courtyard & garden of the Casa de la Cultura

Painting illustrating the history of Olancho with Jesus & Catholic priests at the center

One of the historians, Dario Euceda, graciously gave me an interview. He also shared some rare books on the topic and allowed me to copy relevant pages. In his research he came across the mention of Villa Hermosa. He said it will be a problem to locate the site of this destroyed Spanish city. Sixteenth century Spanish chronicles were not precise in describing locations and distances. He outlined three possible locations: north from Juticalpa in the Agalta Valley, or in the vicinity of El Boquerón river valley east of Juticalpa, or south of Boquerón around San Francisco de Becerra (a small town). Now we know why Villa Hermosa is a lost city. No one knows its exact location. I’m relying on the spirit of my ancestor to guide me to where he wants me to contact him.

This retired historian observed me asking to look at books on the history of Olancho. He came over & inquired about my investigations. He championed my research & introduced me to other writers/historians. He was forthcoming with theories about the location of Villa Hermosa. The spirit of my dead relative sent him to me to assist in my search.

Dario Euceda, historian/poet, shared his time, rare books, and knowledge. I purchased one of his book which he elegantly signed for me.

Carminda Clementina Romero, poet/writer/pioneer/intellectual/historian helped me by reading some of the difficult literature in "old" Spanish and translating into modern Spanish. I am in her debt. She invited me to Tegucigalpa to do further research in the Honduran National Archives (not open to the general public, only credentialed scholars); an opportunity to view 16th & 17th century manuscripts.

The Casa de la Cultura is taking the lead in educating the public about the threats, as well as the new threat of the Zika virus, posed by the dreaded mosquito.

Tomorrow, we travel to the mountain of El Boquerón with Rigo. We’ll hike the river valley and explore. We’ll talk with any locals in the area and see if they can provide leads. It’s very hot and humid, so in addition to my note book and pen I’ll take lots of water and bug repellant. Juan de Grijalva, I sense your presence. Your family is on the way to help guide you to the light.

Edgar, owner chef of Restaurante Hamburguesas (recommended), studied at the University of Michigan & one of the few Hondurans who speaks fluent English. He assisted my research by introducing me to a retired history professor. He is a great contact to know if you travel to Juticalpa.

Edgar's delightful daughter Camila

Open air food stall that sets up after dark, sanitary & tasty

Grilled chicken, rice, french fries, salad, & ever present corn tortillas (inexpensive, delicious, & filling)

Olancho is known for its excellent gourmet coffee. It goes well with a berry stuffed pastry.