There was something wrong with my saddle. Within minutes I was feeling tortured and could not figure out why no horse ride has ever hurt me to this degree before. The talkative guide seemed to pity me, but with his utter lack of English I didn't know how to explain why I was in pain. Plus, he was getting on my nerves but I felt horrible for thinking so...he was certainly friendly enough, but I don't always trust friendly folk.

Was I completely evil for wondering why he constantly pointed out the obvious? Granted, my Spanish was not capable of discussing philosophy, but I really didn't need a cowboy to point and exclaim, "Vache! Bananos!"

While waiting for my guide to pick me up, the obnoxious hotel tout tried to act friendly and ask about my future plans in the country. I told him my immediate plans were to visit Gracias—"No, there is nothing to do there," he said dismissively—and then a couple days in San Juan—"There is nothing to do there either. No one ever goes there," he said, looking annoyed. I burst out, "Does ANYTHING interest you?" He listed towns where party bars and loose women were more easily found. I wasn't really that surprised.

I'd paid that asshole $50 for a package combining the ruins in the morning with an afternoon horse ride; subtracting the $10 entrance fee, that meant my ride was still overpriced by at least $20. When I considered that my horse ride in Tupiza cost only $6, and that even at only $10 these may be the priciest ruins I'd visited to this point, I realized Honduras was not a bargain destination—at least, not by my cheap-ass standards.

I don't know why I automatically sign up any time I'm presented with a horse-riding opportunity. I'm terribly frightened of horses, never dreamed of owning a pony as a girl, and always carry too much breakable photography equipment on my person to trot, let alone gallop. And yet, as always, here I was.

But even with the pain emanating from my lower regions, the horse ride was a great deal of fun. We rode out of town along a river, surrounded by beautifully lush banana trees. It wasn't the rainy season, thankfully, but it also wasn't bone-dry; every bit of green in this country glowed and smelled fresh. There weren't many tourists around, and I was impressed to notice how many locals were walking the same long route I was riding.

We took a steep trail up to a Mayan village, the horses weaving from side to side rather than climbing straight up. I'm not sure what I was expecting from the village, but it definitely wasn't a group of small girls encircling me, holding a variety of handmade trinkets in their outthrust hands, eyes glazed, chanting "compras...compras..." in a creepy possessed way. They did not take no for an answer, although they did stop briefly when I held up my camera. Weirded out by their insistence, I readily jumped back on the horse.

The best part of the trip was stopping for a cold drink at Bessie's, a café in the middle of nowhere. Bessie's is owned by a fat American in his 50s and his 27-year-old wife (!), and provided entertainment in the form of their snarky 12-year-old (!!!) daughter. She spoke flawless English with a healthy dose of sarcasm. She cracked jokes, wished she had my hair, and dismissed Copán Ruinas as "not a real town." (Although I'd think it would be better than living on a farm!) She saw my guide on a regular basis; unlike me, she was not ashamed of disliking him and had also noticed that he always pointed out the obvious. When he hinted with a wicked grin that she would marry his son someday, she turned to me and said clearly "I want more for myself."

You can't help but love a gal like that.

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