One Rough Man by Brad Taylor Page B

archaeology and didn’t give a rat’s ass about his theories of the Mayan demise, forcing him to fund these expeditions out of his own pocket.
    As always, he had hired local Mayan laborers without going through the required steps with the Guatemalan government. Nobody had cared before, and surely nobody would now, but an unhappy labor force could bring unwanted scrutiny. The Biosphere, one of the last remaining uncharted rain forests on earth, was dotted with Mayan archaeological treasures. Because of this, his activities would not be looked upon as a prank. Disgusted, he called over the native leadership, determined to find out what on earth could cause his hires to give up a new set of thirty-cent rubber sandals.
    The natives themselves couldn’t articulate to the professor exactly what it was they feared, only that they wouldn’t go any farther on this specific route. In the end, they were torn between their instinct and the bounty the professor represented. They weren’t stupid. They still wanted a new set of rubber sandals. They just didn’t want to pay for it with their lives.
     
     
    WHILE THE PROFESSOR ARGUED WITH THE LEADERSHIP, Eduardo and Olmec, two of the younger members of the expedition, were having their own parley. Eduardo, a spindly nineteen-year-old, was sure this halt was an opportunity not to be missed. All he had to do was convince his partner.
    “Olmec, now’s our chance! The Elders still believe in the old ways too much. We can find this temple, take something of value, then get back here before dark. Tomorrow, at least we’ll have something to show for it besides the professor’s quetzals.”
    Olmec, one year younger than Eduardo, but rooted in a much earlier time, responded, “We don’t even know where it is. Only the professor knows. He never tells anyone more than the next hundred meters. There’s no way we’re going to find that temple by ourselves. If we could, why has our village signed on for these trips every year? We’d have done it by ourselves a long time ago. I’ll tell you why—because there is no temple. There’s only the curse.”
    Unlike Olmec, Eduardo had lost all semblance of Mayan instinctual heritage and saw such hesitation as complete idiocy. He was one of the few from his village who had made the trek as a migrant worker to the fabled United States. Some said that he did more than simply make the trek, but was in reality tied in to the illegal transport of workers into the United States.
    “There is no curse. It’s just an old wives’ tale used to keep kids from wandering away in the jungle. Have you ever heard of anyone dying from some strange ailment out here or disappearing completely? Anyone at all?”
    Olmec didn’t say anything, prompting Eduardo to continue. “I saw the map on the professor’s computer with the markings showing where the temple is. You could read the map and lead us to it.”
    Two years ago, while Eduardo was away, working in the U.S., a Presbyterian church from Santa Fe, New Mexico, had sent a “mission” to their village, spending a month building houses, wells, and sewage. One of the gringos was a scoutmaster. He loved his scouting job, and spent his evenings teaching the village boys scouting skills such as using a map, compass, and GPS. Olmec had paid attention.
    Eduardo knew he was close to hooking his superstitious friend. All he needed to do now was convince him of the simplicity of the idea.
    “I’ve been watching where the professor puts his GPS. I’ll go take it. He won’t miss it now, since we aren’t going anywhere anytime soon. The maps too. He doesn’t keep a good watch on either, because he thinks nobody knows how to use them.”
    Olmec sighed, then said, “If you get the equipment, I’ll lead the way.”
    Eduardo slipped off, returning in minutes with a map, compass, and GPS.
    Olmec reluctantly turned on the GPS and took a little time orienting the map.
    “According to this, we’re only five hundred