Along the Merry Way....

It was my last night in Comayagua, and I was chatting with two Missionary friars. Says one, "We have to go pick up some goods from our friend Sam the Slinger. He's just back from Nicaragua. Want to come, Liz?" I jumped into the friar-jeep with them, completely forgetting to ask for leave, and we headed off, driving deep into the heart of the eerie darkness of an enormous, poverty-stricken city: the black of night splashed with city lights, strange faces in the corners of streets, the oozing yellow of dying lights glinting off coils and coils of razor wires, streets filled with the flitting ghosts and shadows of the days' people, vehicles, and animals, all melting back to the safety of home for the night. "Yep," says Friar 1, "The USA is too small for Sam the Slinger." We pull up to a tall building surrounded by walls and wire. Out saunters Sam the Slinger. He looks like some type of special forces soldier. We climb up narrow stone stairways and in...

We ate breakfast and drank coffee in the back of the truck as the sun was rising--Daniel from Siquatepeque and Andrew from the US. Then we had to push the truck downhill to get it going again. Rather, they pushed while I steered. In the wild narrow streets, a crowd of street workers hitch a ride in the back of the truck, then deceive us about directions so we go where they really want to go, banging on the back till we let them off. Asking directions again, we get sent totally the wrong way (deceived again because Andrew and I are gringos). Then a while later, we run into our first crowd of "friends" who laugh and tell us we are totally in the wrong part of town. Then the man hops on board (one of the ones who had first deceived us), giving directions till we get there. Then Andrew pays him so he can catch a bus back to work.

A bunch of the Honduran and American missionaries and I drove in the mist up El Volcan mountain. It's not really a volcano. We saw armed guys in camo walking down the hill. I wouldn't want to mess with them. We went off onto a tiny, slippery mountain path that led us out of the pines and into misty banana tress with big bunches of fruit and enormous umbrella leaves. We found ourselves cutting across the steep slopes of a coffee fenca that was dripping with rain and mist. We brushed through the dripping red berries and brilliant green leaves...Lo and behold, we found ourselves at a small mountain hut--the owner of the coffee fenca, who was busily frying his lunch. He had a very friendly face and served us delicious nectar, called coffee, but I wanted to ask if it as from Heaven, actually it came from his own grove. A dear, sweet happy man in a hovel with five sons out cutting coffee and a wife dead 11 years. His name was Tranquillino. We ran back down through the misty mountains...

I only have a few days left here, but they are packed full of activity in a laid-back Central American way. The missionaries have discovered that I can drive! Not many people can drive standard down here or for the Hondurans, drive at all. So I have been spending a lot of time behind the wheel. Its hair-raising because you have to watch out for cows, horses, donkeys, kids, suicidal teenagers on bikes, angry taxi-drivers, teams of cattle plodding down the street. Plus, you have to gage how many rules you have to break to keep the other drivers happy. When I drive the English teachers to school in the morning, I have to drive splashing through a river both ways to get there! The Hondurans have a special gene for balancing on a bouncing truck. When everyone is crammed into the back on a mission, they perch at the most dangerous angles with only one hand relaxedly holding onto the edge. Sometimes, when we are en route, we will pick up hitchhikers along the way, women with bags or little ki...

I just got back from another 3-day mission in the mountains. This time it was a medical mission as well as a spiritual mission. There is a young doctor and her mother visiting from the States, and they brought a lot of medicine with them. The team piled into the back of the missioners truck...We were all surrounded by bags and boxes of supplies and then chugged off into the mountains again. We spent a lot of time with tons of people crammed in the back of a truck, and it is a lot of fun. We went to a place called El Paradiso! It was like Eden too! I've never seen so many orange trees, banana groves, huge globe-like fruits, papaya, coconuts, bamboo and even bright blue birds flying about. The other Hondurans laughed when I gasped and took a photo of a banana tree, but then they gasped when I told them that we have apple trees in Canada. The oranges as well as the coffee here are the very form and essence of what oranges and coffee should be.

That night, Candida and I, now fast friends, packed in candlelight, drew the familiar dirty cement bags across the broken door, and huddled together for the last night in Soloara. I said, "I have to go use the bathroom." "Yo tambien." Me too, she said. I was going to drag the cement bags out of the way again, when suddenly: the sound of running, pounding feet around the outside the building. "Actually, I don't really have to go." "Yo tampoco." Me neither, she agrees. We grin at each other, snuff out the candle, and crawl under the bug-netting again. (We found out the next morning, that the "pounding feet" belonged to one of the other Honduran missionaries making a dash for the washroom himself!)

Time was running short and Erica was SO sick, so Roger heroically offered to run ahead so as to make it back to the capilla on time. I over-confidently offered to go too as I was supposed to give the charla on prayer—que horror! So, I set off confidently, Roberto accompanying us. These mountain-bred men run up vertical slopes with great ease. I think of this march as one of the most grueling experiences in my life. I had given my bag to R. and things were going chirpy—I was chatting with Roger until we got to the waterfall and I was thinking, "Man! A break already?!" But then Roberto gave me back my bag and I realized they were just wetting their hair—we were all splashing around—in preparation for leaping like gazelles up the mountain. Such agony struggling after them. They practically ran up the mountain, and I was determined not to get lost behind in the maze of paths. Then when things straightened out and the chapel was in sight and I was alive and still with my two mount...

The wind last night and today is horrendous. We have been eating in darkness because no candle can keep alight in this draft. The tin sheets banged and banged all night on the roof like a herd of horses—Candida, Erica, and I all huddled together under bug-netting. We had one small flashlight to share when we battled the wind to go to the bathroom. This morning there were branches and trees down and broken tiles everywhere. It is like a perpetual windstorm up here in the mountains. Roaring and roaring until you cannot hear yourself speak. The next morning (today) we walked a very steep hour and 15 min to a tiny neighboring aldea. This was an incredibly barren hike through great panoramic stretches of mountains. Hills dry and deserted as far as the eye can see. It was so steep that for part of the way we all stumbled down, Roberto, Omar and Wilson (my little brothers :) leaping like goats. Our guide carried his machete to slash at branches in the way and the tall, spiky cactus-like plant...

The people's smiles here are so wonderful, but they are incredibly timid, yet curious. A group of villagers with a cluster of wide-eyed children all came into our sleeping shack and then left. We put a bench with a bag of cement on top in front of the door. As Claire told me, you never know what will happen in the mountains. There are many gangs in Honduras. Once, she told me, she committed the social taboo in a particular village of dancing with a little girl. She was informed that none of the Christians dance there anymore because a massacre occurred once when they were in the middle of a dance. The only taboo in Soloara is girls wearing pants. So the three of us girls threw skirts over our jeans whenever we were leading a mission.

I asked, "Cuantos delgados eran en la capilla?" The Hondurans tried to politely keep a straight face, but then everyone burst out laughing because instead of saying, "How many delegates (delegados) were in the chapel," I'd asked, "How many skinny people (delgados) were in the chapel?" "Lots and lots," they said, grinning. Then, "Well, no, actually, three."

We said mass in an abandoned school room and then ran to catch our bus. Lo and behold we waited, everyone waited patiently, for 2 1/2 hours before we finally left. Time is always slower here. We were sitting in front of a crowd of drunk guys at the back of the bus. The bus-driver patiently stopped to let them pee, but they were also the ones who pushed the bus when it couldn't make it up the hill. Rowdy guitar music was playing, and people clambered out the back door and onto the roof!

The missionaries told me about a drunk man who once broke into Casa Milagro. He got caught in the barbed wire around the top of the house. They called the police, who said they would come. The missionaries waited. No police. So they called the police again, who said that they didn't have any vehicles to get there. The missionaries offered to come pick up the police if they would just come take away the invader. Still no go. Finally, I believe it was the Franciscan friars who came over to help take care of the man. Now, they have an armed guard each night to watch the mission. His name is Don Alfredo, and every evening at sundown, we brought him his revolver and a cup of coffee. You sure can't put a price on a peaceful night's sleep :)