Chris Fisher told American Archaeology that the charges were “ridiculous.” “Our work has resulted in protection for the area. We’re preparing academic publications on the material. The map digitizes the archaeological features we saw. The overarching goal was to confirm what we saw on the lidar. I don’t think that’s adventuring.” He was particularly dismayed that Begley had called him a “treasure hunter,” the dirtiest insult in archaeology. Chris said to me, “Where are Begley’s peer-reviewed publications? Where’s his scholarship? I can’t find a single peer-reviewed article he’s published. And if he claims he’s visited these ruins, where’s the map? Where’s the site report?” Chris continued: “When you do archaeology, you survey, you make maps, you take photos, notes, et cetera. If he [Begley] had those locations they should have been turned over to the IHAH, as it is their cultural patrimony. To not do so is colonial and unethical.” But in the past twenty years, according to IHAH, Begley had not deposited any reports of his work, in violation of Honduran regulations.

The National Geographic Society posted the expedition’s response: “We hope our colleagues will realize the enormous contribution and attention that this project has brought, not only to the academic community working in the area but to the people and government of Honduras, and we hope that together we will be able to foster and encourage greater academic research in the area.”

Virgilio Paredes, in his capacity as director of IHAH, wrote a letter of support that the expedition posted with the FAQ. In private he was upset at the academic attacks. He told me that he had checked IHAH records and they showed that, indeed, Begley hadn’t pulled an archaeological permit in Honduras since 1996, even though he continued to “illegally” conduct research and exploration, as well as guide celebrities, filmmakers, journalists, and adventure-tourists to remote archaeological sites for pay. When I gave Begley an opportunity to refute that serious charge, in an exchange of e-mails he was unwilling or unable to do so, saying only that I was “being misled.” He wrote in his defense: “All of my trips to Honduras have either had necessary permission or they did not involve any activities that legally or by the regulations of the IHAH would require a permit.” He declined to provide any specifics, and he would not clarify the nature of his work in Honduras since 1996—whether it was archaeological, commercial, or touristic. He shut down our e-mail correspondence by writing: “I hope that this can put an end to this line of inquiry… That is really all I have to say on this matter.”

“They criticized,” Virgilio said to me, “because they were not involved. Come on! They should be saying, ‘How can we get involved and help?’ This is a project for my country, Honduras—for my children’s children.”

Juan Carlos Fernández mused, drily: “They’re upset because we invaded their sandbox.”

Originally it seemed that the contretemps came from a concern about academic purity and incorrect assumptions, whether willful or not, about where the site was located. But I eventually learned that there were deeper reasons for the academic rhubarb, unwittingly revealed to me by one of the letter signers, who asked to remain anonymous. Many of the signatories had been supporters of the Zelaya administration. After Zelaya was deposed in the 2009 military coup, the new government removed the previous director of IHAH, Dario Euraque, and replaced him with Virgilio Paredes. The source complained to me that, because of the coup, the present government of Honduras is illegitimate and Virgilio Paredes “is in charge illegally” and “I will not work with him.” Euraque, who teaches at Trinity College in Connecticut, was one of the leading critics and complained to the Guardian that the expedition was “irrelevant,” a publicity stunt, and he claimed it had “no archaeologists of any name.”

All this made it clear that the protest letter was, in part, a proxy attack on the present Honduran government, an example of how the coup and its aftermath left the Honduran archaeological community angry and divided. We would see more evidence of this when excavations began the following year, reigniting the controversy. Many of the letter signers have found it difficult to let go of the dispute and continue to disparage the project.

CHAPTER 20

The key in tying together the Americas

Our too-short exploration of the ruins was only the beginning of understanding the significance of the site and its treasures. The excavation of the cache—and the revelation of its secrets—would come only once the team was able to return to the jungle during the following year’s dry season. But before we could understand the importance of the city itself, we needed to answer the more immediate question: Who were the people who built it? A hint of the answer lies in the stupendous Talgua Caves in the Agalta Mountains north of Catacamas.

In April 1994, two Peace Corps volunteers living in Catacamas, Timothy Berg and Greg Cabe, heard about some caves along the Talgua River, in the mountains about four miles outside of town. The caves were a popular picnicking spot with the locals, and the men were curious to explore them. Joined by two Honduran friends, Desiderio Reyes and Jorge Yá?ez, Berg and Cabe hitched a ride to the end of the closest road and hiked up the river. The four stopped to explore the largest cave, a giant cleft in the limestone cliffs a hundred feet up. An underground stream tumbled out of the opening, dropping in waterfalls to the river below.