Noli Me Tangere

Honduras Travelogues - Vol. 3

Since it was Saturday, and I said I wanted to buy a few souvenirs, TKO took me into the city in the early morning. When I say that they "took me", I mean of course that we rode the 7:30 yellow bus into La Ceiba, which took its name from a giant Ceiba tree near the port that gave shade to the dock workers years ago.

First stop: breakfast. At a tiny little smoothie shop they had frequented before, we sucked, and the sucking was very good. I, for one, sucked until the very last drop.

"The fruit in Honduras is really good," Tom explained between sucks. That much was being vindicated by each successive suck. And it is also evidenced by the fact that La Ceiba is the main shipping port for Standard Fruit Company (Dole) and United Fruit Company (Chiquita). And here I was drinking said fruits before they ever got on a boat. They tasted like they were never even in a truck, or a market, or a box.

Downtown La Ceiba has some nice old buildings, yet they also have a Wendy's, Pizza Hut, and (don't ask why) a Church's Chicken. I wanted to see the ocean, so we walked down to the pier. While it's not a recommended swimming spot, the water was clear and blue and the beach, encroached as it is by the city, was pleasant. As turned back towards the city, the strains of music touched our ears and suddenly there was, inexplicably, a marching band coming down the center of the boulevard toward us. They were small but loud and made me feel like marching.

At La Mercada, the Honduran Publix, I bought a few food items and took great joy in the shopping cart. Are Hondurans really that short? Or are they just looking out for midgets? Maybe the kids do the shopping.

One of the things I noticed on the ride in from the airport is how many pickups there are. Everyone had a pickup, and now I know why: so you can fill the bed with shady strangers and drive them up into the mountains at unwise speeds. They even have a word for this: jalon. We took a jalon back up to Las Mangas.

That afternoon, we undertook the hour or so hike to La Moralla to visit Santos and Rubenia Ramirez, a farmer and his wife who share a rather unbelievable existence with their four boys. I sat under their roof (to call it a room would imply walls) for 45 minutes or so before I realized that the pile of potatoes hanging in the hammock in the middle of the room was actually a baby who was either a) dead or b) asleep. Fortunately, this little wonder woke up and made funny faces for us all. Routinely, chickens would stroll across the dirt floor. A pig came by but didn't stay. Rubenia stood contentedly in her 'kitchen' working the corn while an earthen oven seeped smoke that stained the grass ceiling black.

Santos is a very industrious man--you have to be to survive as a farmer in these montains--yet, he is very tiny and has some health problems. He looks like a mini-Juan Valdez. You may recall that TKO have written about his extraordinary heart defect that has limited his ability to do heavy manual labor. Doctors have say his condition is so rare that they will treat it at no cost, but the details are still being worked out.

After a bizarre Catholic town meeting in which 6 of the 7 people present were elected officers, we went down to the swimming hole. The Ramirez kids have absolutely no fear, hurling head-first off 12' rocks into water that seemed less than a body length deep. I went off too (though feet first) and deemed this the best water hole I've ever seen. I slipped behind the waterfall (because back there your voice sounds funny), and there on the rock, at the end of my nose, was a spider with a 5" legspan. After the kids had soaped up and rinsed, we ate Rubenia's tamalitos de helotet (sweet corn tamales) and hit the trail much refreshed.

Just after the trail empties into the road and crosses the river, we passed by Maria's house. Her handicapped boy was outside so we talked to him, and then Maria came out. She looked tired. When she smiled it was a very incomplete smile, because her eyes resisted. She asked TKO how much longer they would stay in Honduras because, she said, "many Americans don't stay" and I don't know that they could bring themselves to answer honestly.

As we walked away, Tom whispered that her son Angel was the child mowed down in the street only a month ago. Her husband is too drunk to be of much support, and she has grown very depressed. Amazingly, someone has arranged for her to see a therapist in the city. I may never see them, but I hope that her eyes learn to smile again.

Posted by aokie at September 4, 2004 07:00 PM