Noli Me Tangere

Honduras Travelogues - Vol. 4

No sooner had I showered and shuffled into the kitchen when there was some noise at the door. We opened, and suddenly there in the bright morning light stood a wiry man with a weathered face and coffee skin that seemed to be stretched extra tight around his head. He wore a cowboy hat and carried nothing but an old guitar slung over his shoulder.

It was Cruz. Juan Timoteo Cabrera Cruz. He was going to play some songs for us and we were going to like it.

And for the next 75 minutes or so, we sat in that empty concrete room and he played his guitar. How he played it, I cannot say, for he played unlike any other. I can't even say what was different, but I can say that I was unable to play along, even in a supplementary role. He used the same chords, but the rhythms were all different, but not so that they sounded wrong, or off, but just enough that I couldn't follow.

Juan lives about 2-3 hours further up into the hills, and he was known in the area for being a good player. He turned out to be a fine singer and songwriter as well. Most of his songs were about God. When he asked me to play one of my songs, he couldn't seem to follow along, either. But he asked me to send him a CD of my songs.

After a while, the conversation turned to me bringing him a "requinto" when I returned to Honduras. Though I had never heard of it, nor did I plan to return to Honduras soon, he insisted I bring one next time, and he would pay me for it. At least we think that is what he was saying; his dialect is difficult.

It was Sunday morning, so he asked to meet with all the Americans and delivered a little sermon. Then, Juan donned his big hat, perched his guitar on his shoulder, and set off down the road. I think I was a little surprised that his guitar didn't at some point spring open to reveal a semi-automatic weapon, a la Desperado.

Loani Lobo lives down the street. She was turning 18, so she threw a party, and TKO were invited. I tagged along because, what else am I going to do in Las Mangas?

Honduran birthday parties are usually DIY affairs, and there are two basic elements: loud latin music and a pinata. The rest is just hanging out. For this particular party, they went all out by serving some red meat, a real treat in these parts. I was honored, but it was probably the worst hamburger I have ever tried to eat. It's not clear if they like them that way, or if we've just been spoiled by BK. Either way, I drank a lot of Tang trying to wash that down.

The partyers were from the area, and spanned several generations. A group of shady-looking hombres--when not leering at the girls--played cards at the table, and Tom identified two of them to me as brothers of a man involved in the shooting of the troubled stranger in the soccer field. After surviving the revenge shooting, he left town a wanted man but his brothers remained, some of them seemingly on a similar path. The youngest has not yet been in serious trouble, and Peter is heavily invested in his life.

The real fun of a Honduran party, I've learned, is the pinata. First, in keeping with tradition, the birthday girl took a few whacks at the papier mache Pooh. Then a skinny little girl in pink took that stick and began swinging for the fences. She was brutal, would not rest until Pooh was dead. Each strike produced a sharp "THWACK!", a new dent, and screams of anticipation. The energy in that little hut crescendoed with each successive strike until Pooh, his skull crushed and limbs broken, was no longer able to dodge blows. And with one last strike, Pooh's side split open from hip to pit, spilling candied guts on the dirt floor, and the kids pounced, squealing with delight.

The Las Mangas youth gather on Sunday evenings at the campus for bible study. I don't know what a typical study looks like, but this one seemed serious. We sang for a long time, and again, the teenagers didn't grow restless, even when we sang all five verses of unfamiliar english hymns.

Lesbin, a conscientious 16-yr old, wanted to pray because he "could not avoid God any longer". Burdened by his continued resistance, he sought to make some peace with his Creator. I wasn't there to see it, but Larry said he left "a new person", his countenance undeniably brightened.

I know that not everyone will find the same joy in this story. I don't know Lesbin, or the exact nature of his experience, but I know that feeling of keeping God at arm's length, as if to sustain my independence and rebellion for just a few more seconds. There is something in my soul and Lesbin's soul, that needs to know that peace has been made, and that that which was wrecked has been mended.

Posted by aokie at September 5, 2004 06:22 PM