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me, but Mart didn’t hear.
    “I’ve been at Rochester just over a year now,” Mart told me. “Before that, I worked more directly with animal conservation and protection.” At my puzzled look, he elaborated. “I’d been working with a rhino relocation program in Namibia.”
    “That sounds fascinating,” I said, my mind conjuring up romantic scenes from Out of Africa.
    “Yes,” he nodded. “It was.”
    “Why did you stop?”
    “Grant money ran out,” he stated. “No money, no rescue missions. The end.” Before he looked away, his eyes became huge, dark pools, unfathomable and distant. I knew he must have been recalling the animals.
    I didn’t know what to say, so I clammed up. Lifting the camera from around my neck, I pointed it out the window and snapped a few frames.
    All around us, the jungle pressed in, a hundred shades of green. I craned my neck, trying to see the tops of the trees, but couldn’t. I’d read some grew to more than one hundred feet. A light mist hung within the foliage, brought on, I assumed, by the combination of moisture and heat.
    We were well into Guatemala now, forty miles beyond the border of Belize. Picking up the sheet of information Mart had compiled, I read it over for the fourth or fifth time and felt a surge of excitement course through me. This trip hadn’t been my idea, but right now, in the midst of the forest on the edge of the ruins, I was glad to be here.
    “Here we go,” Mart said, nudging me from my studies. “Put that away, Allison. It’s time for the real thing.”
    I looked up, gazing out the window. The road had led us to a clearing where a white, contemporary-looking, flat-roofed building stood.
    “This is where our tour begins,” Mart said as the SUV came to a halt and Clark opened the door. “It’s the museum — and the gift stalls, of course. You can pick up guidebooks and postcards.”
    As the rest of the SUVs pulled in behind us and discharged group members I looked over my shoulder at the museum. “I think I’ll just see what’s in there.”
    It took only a few seconds to reach the entryway and once I stepped inside, I was fascinated.
    There was a model of the city as it must have looked long ago, detailing many of the structures which, at the present time, were still covered with jungle growth. Photo displays illustrated the long, tedious process of uncovering the ruins. Most enthralling, however, were the stelae — stone monuments standing up to twelve feet high. From a plaque nearby I learned one was believed to be the oldest from Tikal, dating back to 292 A.D. Standing next to it, I tried to imagine what the world had looked like 1700 years ago. What had these forests been like then? When no SUVs drove into its depths with tourists? When no planes flew overhead? When pollution of water, air, and land was unheard of?
    Gingerly, gently, I reached out and touched the relief carving on the stelae, thinking of the history recorded there. Moving on, I saw other artifacts from the site — beautiful stone statues and other objects made from wood, bone, and jade.
    There were also books and postcards available for purchase and I chose a few, paying for them with quetzales, the local currency I’d gotten at the hotel.
    Out in the hot sun once more, I wandered over to the stalls where many of our group had already congregated, joining crowds of other tourists. Colorful woven textiles of all varieties spread on shelves and draped over wooden framework.
    I ran my fingers over the nubby texture of a shirt done in tones of orange, red and blue.
    “That’s a huipil,” a voice came from behind me.
    When I turned, I saw a native Guatemalan about my own age. Her long, dark hair fell past her shoulders and I noticed she wore an outfit like those up for sale, this one in vivid shades of blue and green. Despite the temperature, she looked cool and comfortable. She smiled as she approached, her teeth gleaming white against her darker complexion.
    “These