ESTA ES SU CASA--JANUARY 2012The Beacon just published my “Christmas Letter”:
http://www.stlbeacon.org/voices/in-the-news/114939-letter-from-honduras-nice-news-for-the-holiday
“FURTHER”By my calculations, this is the 100th edition of ESTA ES SU CASA, dating back to June of 2003. If you have been along for the long strange trip, like Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters’ bus “Further,” I just have one question: who’s driving?
As December began, I felt like the opening line of Flannery O’Connor’s “A Good Man Is Hard to Find”: “The Grandmother did not want to go to Florida.” Every step we took could have been our last, or at least I began to hope so. Would we go to Tocoa at the eastern extreme of Honduras, to visit Chemo’s sister Rosa, 24, and brother Marcos, 15? Or would we go to Tras-Cerros at the western extreme to visit Chemo’s mother Rufina? Or, God forbid, both? If it were a big circle, it would at least feel like progress, but it’s a slingshot--a very long and slow slingshot--no where there.
I was pushing for a compromise, with Marcos meeting us at the halfway point, in El Progreso, to go to Rufina, because Marcos would be spending Christmas with us in Las Vegas, so he was the key, as far as I was concerned. But Chemo was making Tonito, Rosa’s little four-year-old terror, the top priority. Chemo loves that kid! So I saw the writing on the wall, and it was all dollar signs.
Now, I ask you, if a mother wants to see her children, wouldn’t she live a little closer to them? But there’s enough poverty in this family, including all its broken history, that I feel it my duty to keep connecting Chemo--and Marcos--with their mother, at whatever cost. Chemo was ambivalent. “I just saw her in July,” when we went for her birthday. Maybe it is harder for him to see her than not, if he has to start from scratch, emotionally speaking, every time. So maybe we’d cut off that whole leg of the trip. “It’s too much money for you to spend,” he said. Was I turning him into a cheapskate like myself, pricing his own mother out of his circle of concern? Or, more likely, was he gauging how he’d spend whatever we saved on more soccer shoes, clothes, CDs, and other stuff? Either way, I was determined not to surrender to cynicism.
But I did drag my feet some, hoping for more clarity. First, we needed to wait for Mariana Teresa’s second birthday December 2, which I described in the November CASA. And then, when Santos--Chemo’s half-brother--and Alba’s daughter Cecilia (“Chila”) would be turning 15 on December 6, we couldn’t miss that, because the “Quinceanera” marks the traditional turn from a girl to a young lady. Ordinarily we would miss it, because the family would have already long since headed for the mountains of El Transito to pick coffee for three or four months. But, what with the new baby, whose name they modified to Alba Suyapa, instead of the homage to Alba’s mother Natalia that I was pushing for, they postponed their departure. In fact, I was sure that the new-born was really too little to be carting her off to the cold and lonely hills. But here babies don’t get babied.
Chila really is already a young lady. During the difficult days of Alba’s pregnancy, she managed the house, including making our supper every night, all the while working her way successfully through third grade at school. But they made a lovely little birthday party for Chila. For the cake, Profe Flor made a masterpiece, a blend of strawberry, chocolate, and vanilla, decorated like a French palace, complete with a little figurine “15” on top.
But then, we had to get going. We could not even wait for the big exodus to El Transito, because who knew how long our pilgrimage was all going to take, with possible stops in El Progreso and Morazan as well. And I thought we might be having visitors for Christmas, so we better be home when they arrived!
We were pretty lucky the first day. Leaving at 5:00 a.m., five hours to El Progreso, where we jumped on a bus to Tocoa just waiting for us, it seemed. At first I thought, oh no, we can’t take this bus, it’s old and crowded. We’d always taken these big, sort of Megabuses before to Tocoa. But I quickly came to my senses, as Chemo was pulling me along. “Let’s get on! Let’s get on!” He was right, of course, because it’s not the bus, it’s the road. And this road was paved. But it was crowded, enough that when we stopped for a quick lunch break at a big cafeteria, Chemo started sharing his food with a woebegone little boy whose mother couldn’t afford the touristy prices; I followed his lead and gave the child the rest of my soda.
Five more hours to Tocoa, the village of Juan Antonio, to be exact, where Marcos met us at the highway and we started the hike up the road. He and Chemo picked up right where they left off a year ago, teasing and poking, and Chemo grabbing Marcos’ cell phone, which Marcos had bought with money he earned milking cows.
But the river, would the river be a problem? I’m such a baby, I treat it like the Red Sea, when it’s no more than a creek, but I just imagine slipping off the stepping stones and wetting myself (you should excuse the expression) with no chance of drying off in the rainy, cloudy climate. “There’s a bridge now!” Marcos assures us. Well, then, I’m saved. We round a bend in the road and I see, or strain to see, the “bridge.” “That’s not a bridge, that’s a branch!” A tree trunk stripped of its bark, with a kink in it like the old Chain of Rocks Bridge that gave me nightmares my entire childhood, thrown across the gorge. With one deaf ear, I have little sense of balance, so I was ready to give up. A little closer, I could see a cable stretched above it, for a handrail, of sorts. OK, maybe.
I gave Marcos my backpack, and he scurried across like a squirrel, while I placed one foot in front of another in a very poor imitation of Philippe Petit crossing between the Twin Towers. Good night nurse, it’s only like forty seconds from one end to the other and I’m praying (cursing?) like a madman. But, I made it, the cable imprinted in my desperate hand. Chemo didn’t even attempt it; he skipped across the stepping stones we crossed last year, but even he misstepped, plunged one leg up to his knee in the water, as Marcos’ cell phone popped out of his pocket right into the river.
We regrouped at the house a few minutes later, where Rosa, Tonio, and of course Tonito welcomed us. Chemo had retrieved the cell phone, and I grabbed it from him. “Where’s the rice?” I had just seen a piece on Yahoo News, What to Do If You Drop Your Cell Phone in a River, or something like that. Remove the battery, and bury the phone in (uncooked!) rice overnight, to dry it out. This is Honduras, so there’s no shortage of rice in a kitchen; Rosa had a big plastic jar full of it right on the counter. Of course, she had to dig around the phone when it came time to fix supper, but by golly, next morning it worked! One tiny grain lodged inside.
You know what? Rosa is actually...a little plump. That’s a good thing, since she was literally on the verge of death a couple years ago when we took her to the same brigada of heart surgeons that had saved Chemo’s life in 2008. They opted for medication rather than surgery, and she’s been backing off the brink ever since. Tonio, too, has been easier on her, since she walked out on him and holed up with Tonito at our place in Las Vegas a couple months last year. Taming Tonito is like a box of spiders, but he’s talking a little better, so at least you know what you’re saying “No” to. First thing he says to me, “Miguel, I’m not saying ‘puta’ anymore.” The equivalent of the F-word. He’s not saying it any less, either! We quickly lost count. It’s not an easy habit to break when your mom and dad still punctuate with it, too. Kindergarten’s gonna be a blast.
My big plan was a Day at the Mall, or a couple hours anyway. So on Saturday, everyone dressed up and we rode the bus into town. (After I swung like a drunken trapezer hanging onto that cable across the log-bridge.) Now, you have to sort of suspend disbelief here. I mean, this is a mall whose “anchor” store is a Wendy’s. Everyone wanted fried chicken, except me (a “Cheddar Lover’s” burger). Afterwards, Marcos, Chemo, and Tonito played for at least an hour in the Playground. Then a shopping spree at the super market, where Rosa loaded up the cart. And I threw in some chocolate, a Hershey bar or two. There was a big soccer game on a big screen in the “atrium,” with rows and rows of chairs set up, but I was looking for Santa Claus, for Tonito, you know. Only later did I express my frustration: “We never saw Santa!” Chemo says, “Oh, he was there, he was watching the game!”
Chemo’s used to the big city experience, Tonio’s a bull, and I’m a gringo--but that night everyone else got sick. Whether it was all that food, or just the chocolate, or the combination of the two, I felt bad that I’d made an affliction out of an invitation. Still, I’d rather die eating chocolate than live a thousand years on humus.
“Let’s go!” Chemo wanted to get going--but where? Marcos, who had not seen Rufina in a year, wanted to see their mother. Chemo still toyed with skipping that part. Marcos, it must be said, is hardly demonstrative. You have to be very patient to “read” his feelings; he might agree with you just to accommodate you. But even Chemo seemed to get the message. When he told me to call Rufina and tell her we weren’t coming, I handed him the phone when she answered. “You tell her,” I said. He did not hesitate. “Mommy, we’re coming, we’re coming tomorrow.” Sweet!
That night before we left was the national championship game between Chemo’s favorite team Olimpia and Real España. It’s the first time in a while that I sat and watched a whole soccer game, but we were at Rosa’s neighbor Consuelo’s house, the only place around with a TV, so I thought I better be polite. It was actually fun! Virtually the entire game was played at Real España’s end of the field (or “pitch,” for you purists), but even firing shot after shot, Olimpia could not score, till the last 4 minutes of the game, a weird ball that snuck in right between the Real España goalie’s crouching legs. Chemo went crazy! The recap was funny; the commentator says, “Well, it’s difficult to evaluate Olimpia’s goalie performance, since Real España NEVER GOT OFF A SHOT!”
Early Monday morning, we crossed the stick-bridge before dawn; the log was wet and slippery, and I moved slower than ever. Meanwhile, a couple of pick-ups drove right through the river, carrying workers to their daily tasks. “I should have waited for a ride,” I kept repeating like a mantra till I finally landed on the other side, an emotional wreck, scared to death of a river 30 feet across and a foot deep....
We hiked to the main road, and just as we got there, a bus to Tocoa rumbles past; I waved and yelled, but it did not stop. “Why didn’t it stop?” I kept repeating, as if I could reverse reality. But a couple minutes later, I got my answer. A great big blue bus approached and...stopped! An express to San Pedro Sula! We quickly squeezed Rosa and Tonito goodbye and clambered aboard and snuggled into the big comfortable seats. Thank God we “missed” the other bus! We’d be there in no time, that is, about 6 hours.
We had two delays. First, a horrible accident with the vehicles still steaming and folks climbing and falling out of a bus as big as ours and a pickup and another car, a mass of twisted metal and debris. A couple minutes earlier, it could have been us. The only dead thing I saw was a dog on the side of the road, maybe the cause of the whole thing, if someone swerved to avoid it.
Then, near Progreso, teachers had blocked the road at a bridge, demanding pay for their comrades who had worked a whole year without it. We were so far back in the stalled traffic that I did not see how they were finally dispersed, but as we got closer, at least I did not detect any tear gas.
In San Pedro Sula, we had time to get lunch at the huge bus terminal before catching the next bus to the Guatemalan border. We ate everything in sight! And washed it down with a gallon of cold Fresca. We got it to go, so we wouldn’t miss the bus, and sat on the ramp, spreading ourselves out like a picnic. People stared, sympathetically, like we were refugees or something.
It’s a “quick” trip to Tras-Cerros, just over two hours. As we stepped off the bus, Fidel, Rufina’s beloved companion, was waiting. He’s as delicate as a dancer, but strong as a bull. Rosa had packed up three enormous bags of stuff (plates and dishes, pots and pans, and clothes and shoes) that Rufina had left behind when she and Fidel and Don Cruz fled Tocoa after being assaulted almost a year ago. Tras-Cerros is Fidel’s home town, and Don Cruz’, too. Fidel carried everything, stopping only once to shift weight.
At the house, the boys immediately fell into into mommy mode, and Rufina answered in kind. I pulled up a chair to talk with Don Cruz, now 92. “Estoy terminando, Miguel.” “I’m done.” He said it so finally, so matter-of-factly, I thought he meant he was literally about to die. But he clarified, “I can’t work anymore, legs won’t take me.” So Old School, so noble, salt of the earth. If you can’t work, you’re done. “Retirement” is surrender. Becoming a burden for someone else, a humiliation. Of course, Rufina and Fidel never mention such things; he is and always will be their “patron,” the man in charge. And I wouldn’t let it pass, either; I started with questions only he could answer, history, customs, politics, frontiers, and the Bible, which he still reads daily, and without glasses! I’ve had “cheaters” since I was 12, and ol’ Don Cruz can still read the Fine Print in his 90s. No, he ain’t done yet!
I question my own capacity among such poor folks, such poor food, such poor accommodations, all offered with such readiness. I could really do with a little humiliation myself. Three meager beds: I slept with Chemo, Marcos slept with his mom, Fidel slept with Don Cruz. Bedtime: 6:30 p.m. I was so tired from our travels that I thought I would make it through the night with no problem, till I woke at midnight, ready to rise. I listened to podcasts till dawn, dozing fitfully.
Chemo wanted to leave after one day, I was thinking three. Marcos, as usual, was noncommittal. We settled on two. And what would be the next step? To Progreso and Morazan, or straight back to Las Vegas? We owed another visit to Santa and the family in Progreso, and to Fermin and Maria in Morazan, but it seemed like a slog up Everest to stay on tour. I had not changed my clothes or bathed in a week. So a night at a hotel in Progreso was enticing, where we could clean up and eat at Pizza Hut, and the Internet would finally work. Chemo saw it as a chance for a shopping spree at the mall. This is so lame, don’t you think? The poor do not live in intervals, where a few jump-cuts of joy sustain them for the long haul. But I know my limits, or I say I do, to excuse myself.
The boys thought they would go to pick coffee with Fidel, but bouts of rain kept us cooped up all morning. A break in the weather let us walk into town for groceries, as well as some hardware to install another couple of lights in the house. The neighborly electrician patched things together in no time.
Rufina, in her very quiet way, clearly longed for more time, even as we rose early on Wednesday to make the bus to San Pedro Sula. “Don’t go today, look, it’s raining.” I gave her some cash that could get her to Tocoa, to visit Rosa, Tonio, and Tonito--and Marcos once he gets back home. Was I paying her off? I don’t know.
We slogged through the mud to get to the bus, but once aboard, the most amazing thing happened. The driver turns on a flat TV screen mounted in the front, and up comes the original “Home Alone”! It kept the boys--and me--entertained all the way to San Pedro. And I was crying! I mean, the kid wished his family away, but he missed them so much, he got them back. Meanwhile, I quizzed Chemo and Marcos both: Progreso? Morazan? Home alone? Chemo was inclining now to a return to Las Vegas, but he sure would love that mall-stop.
Even in San Pedro, we were undecided. I headed us toward a cab to take us to a bus to Progreso--I’d already called Dora in Las Vegas, telling her not to expect us till, maybe, Friday or even Saturday--when Chemo said, “I’m hungry now; let’s eat here.” So we repeated virtually the same lunch we ate three days before. A do-over. Then the cab, and you know, sometimes you have to think outside the box, and sometimes you have to think outside the Big Box. As we passed a mall just a couple blocks from the terminal, I suddenly thought, “What are we doing! If we’re going to Progreso to go to a mall, here’s a mall right here!” I stopped the cab in mid-career, and set the picture for the boys. “If we get our stuff here--fast--we can still catch the bus to Las Vegas. All in favor...”
There are actually two malls, side by side, in San Pedro, one fancy, one fancier. I was just confused enough that we ended up at the fancier one. I’ve never spent so much on so little in my life! It’s a week before Christmas, right? Sales galore. The sports store said Up to 70% Off. Except anything we wanted. Soccer shoes, socks, shorts, jerseys, and a ball, 300 dollars. Merry Christmas! I had to tell myself, it’s worth it; this is professional-grade equipment; it won’t fall into rags so quickly. And look at all the money we were saving by not going to Progreso, etc., easily 300 bucks. Yadda, yadda, yadda.
Anyway, we scampered back to the terminal, where Porfirio’s bus soon appeared, and we settled in for the long ride home. Like old Don Cruz, we were “done.”
The Posadas were set to begin the next night, a wandering chain of visits in imitation of Mary and Joseph seeking shelter in Bethlehem, with Christmas carols, bible readings, and a dash of preaching. Last year about 12 or 15 folks would show up; this year participation exploded, 60 and 70 each night. The kids would cart my chairs house to house in the afternoon, but I’ve only got about 40, so plenty of folks still had to stand. No one complained.
The string of visits was interrupted Dec. 23 by a Mass and wedding. Nahum and Erika were the lovely couple, and it was so simple, rustic, you might say, but so nice. Chemo says, “How are they getting married? They’ve already got two kids!” Yes, well, this is special. And it was special; they held their reception at their house, a sprawling ranch, a legacy over a hundred years old, passed down generation to generation in Nahum’s family. And what with holiday cantinas springing up on every street, Nahum and Erika welcomed their guests to an alcohol-free celebration. The true Spirit of the Season.
Speaking of relationships, the U.S. government just announced the end of the Peace Corps in Honduras, Guatemala, and El Salvador, citing the lethal level of violence in those countries. Everybody leaves in January. I’ve met Peace Corps volunteers ever since I started coming to Honduras, and no one has been a victim of violence, thank God, and I’m sure the volunteers willingly accept the risks. I just hope “Big Sis” Napolitano doesn’t try to chase me out, too.
But who needs “foreigners” anyway? The original Youth Group begun back in the 1980s by Cristina (“Titina”) Castro took advantage of the Season to stage a party in her honor. They’re old enough now to have teens themselves in the current Youth Group, but that first group was special. It was my own introduction to Las Vegas, and, as led by Cristina, they marveled that no one has abandoned their Christian faith. In fact, the only reason Cristina agreed to the fete, I’m sure, is that she saw another chance to share the message she has shared her whole life. You know, sometimes the topic of “women priests” is controversial; for Cristina, ordination would be a step down. She’s in a category by herself, a prophet! Over the years, battling Parkinson’s and other debilities, her voice has softened some, but her Spirit is just as strong as ever. She preached and then, “I’m going to sing now.” Everyone joined in, we were kids again.
I wish Chemo had a Titina. I watch closely for every sign of grace. While he’s on break from school, I have him read the Gospel every day. I try to get Marcos interested, too, but his reading level is so low, we have to go letter by letter. He’s a candidate for Special Education, clearly, but where’s the Special Educator? They do fill my heart when they get up early to go with Dionis, Natalia’s 14-year-old, to climb into the rough hills to collect firewood, and return hours later loaded down and exhausted. The firewood, of course, is for cooking our supper, which, in Alba’s absence, Natalia, Alba’s mother, so kindly prepares. The food is great, her smile even better.
Angelita prepared a birthday party for her brother Ery, who turned 24 on December 30. Think of it. Down Syndrome has tried to claim his life any number of times over the years, but real regard for him has been even more elusive; he’s sort of a toy in the community. Angelita is unembarrassed by the affection she showers on him.
The Merry Pranksters never reached their destination. They never went further enough.
Even they “did not want to go to Florida.” Flannery O’Connor’s story is comic, tragic, above all revelatory.
On December 22, Alice, Teresa Jorgen’s eldest sister, succumbed to Alzheimer’s at age 64. When I visited her with Teresa, she was fading, but serene and pure. There was such peace and love at her passing that you could almost hear the little bells tinkling when Alice got her wings. A grandmother herself, she really went all the way, all the way to “Florida,” that destiny that binds us all together.
Even Christopher Hitchens got on the bus. He was my favorite atheist; he wouldn’t bow to any god, including the idol of self-importance. He was so witty, so contentious, and so drunk a lot of the time that his “greatest hits” are making the rounds of the Internet. But I think, ultimately, he will be remembered for the column he wrote about the death of Lt. Mark Daily, whose service in Iraq Hitchens’ writings had inspired. Hitchens’ struggle with his responsibility is a lesson in morality just as strict as the Sermon on the Mount.
http://www.vanityfair.com/politics/features/2007/11/hitchens200711
God-denier though he was, Hitchens here seems bathed in the faith of those the great theologian Karl Rahner called “anonymous Christians.”
The poor are mostly anonymous all the time. As I start another hundred of these newsletters--and I promise they won’t all be this long!--all I want to do, God willing, is tell their stories, just a nudge, if you will, to go a little further.
We burned the “Old Man,” 2011, on New Year’s Eve, glad to be rid of his death-grip on our dreams. Stuffed with firecrackers, he met a fitting end. Now for 2012, our last chance, if the Mayans are to be believed....
Love, Miguel
