Dispatch Number 28 -My Corner

Everyone told me to be careful at my corner where two streets intersected at 6th and 6th. Hotel Marina was a clean shit hole with a second floor view of giant pot holes that were mysteriously filled during the night with concrete rubble, it also had street food vendors, an endless stream of taxis, children, beggars and a colorful selection of corner prostitutes.

My openness to see and live in the seedy underbelly of society lent itself well to this corner. The entrance to the Marina had Oscar an armed guard who wore a neat paramilitary uniform and totted a big shotgun held at the ready. In light of the dinginess of the place I found it clean enough, safe enough and seedy enough to be happy with the room. So did my travel mates Alex a Mexican journalism student and Jeff a gregarious Australian.

Jeff especially took to the place the way I did. It was one of those bonding moments and I was glad we were traveling together. We were in San Pedro Sula a rough city in Honduras during the unsettled aftermath of a coupd'état that went down just two weeks before. The country was full of protests, crackdowns and curfews. I felt I was traveling with the right men.

I chatted with the prostitutes who hinted at special pleasures and when I showed little interest they asked me to buy them plates of food from the stand I spent the better part of an evening hanging out at. Life lived out in the open.

In dangerous cities like this one when the children are taken home and are no longer playing on the sidewalks it is a very good sign to get off the streets too. Soon the streets were left to roaming trucks full of police to enforce the nation wide curfew from 11pm to 5am. It was a colorful first night in Honduras.

David
Matagalpa, Nicaragua

Dispatch Number 27 -Oscar

In the gun totting Olancho Department known as the Wild West of Honduras I met Oscar a Costa Rican small arms dealer who looked like he made his real money peddling high quality leather gun holsters. We were staying at a Hospedaje, Latin America's version of a flop house with clean simple rooms with shared baths and showers. A basic room is $2.50 a night. I spent $5 so I could have the luxury of a fan and a window.

His girlfriend, Dixie was a robust woman who was open and flirtatious asking if I wanted to meet her sister, cousin or a friend of hers. It is a Honduran trait to match make and is an experience this traveller encounters when stopping to talk with people. She asked for my cell number and I explained that I did not own a cell phone. I think she may have taken my reply as a blow off -I mean who doesn't own a cell phone these days?

Late the next night Oscar came by and we talked about nothing then said goodnight. He returned a moment later and gave me a memento to remember him by, it was a baby sandal made of tan leather, he suggested I hang it from the mirror of my truck. A minute later he vanished like a shadow with a rucksack full of possessions and a nylon potato sack filled with the rest of it. The traveling salesman.

I looked at the baby shoe and decided not to hang it. I have read too much true crime and drew up a sinister relationship immediately of a infant kidnapper and how I wouldn't fare well in superstitious Latin America if they took a misunderstanding to it.

No matter how determined you are you are shaped by your environment.

David
Danli, Honduras

Dispatch Number 26 -Roadways

Seeing a dead man in the flesh after meeting a violent end sets a man to thinking. About all sorts of stuff.

On the road 5 miles out of town on the Caribbean coast of Honduras lay the body of a dead man, the odometer read 195 miles. This highway was the best I had driven in nearly a year of travel through Mexico and Central America, it was wide, smooth and safe. In the opposite lane were a pair of powdery fresh, deeply dark skid marks with a 65+ year old man laying face down with his hands pulled up to his chest. Blood ran from his head down the slope towards my lane. It was wet and visibly moving. After slowly passing the scene we grew silent. There were just a couple people standing around and an old woman stood over him in curious posture.

In silence I thought, I hope he did everything he wanted to do today.

By odometer reading 205 my travel partner and I were talking again. This time about traffic laws in our respective countries -was it legal to drive barefoot in Australia or the United States?

Life is delicate and often inane.

David
Danli, Honduras

Dispatch Number 25 -Weddings

I have attended many weddings in my life, even witnessed my own and over time understood I do not like them. When traveling in Mexico an invitation to attend one came my way while I was studying Spanish not far from Mexico City. Taxco where I was living is a colonial gem of a city with whitewashed buildings and cobblestone streets set on a very steep mountainside. The centerpiece, as in most towns in Mexico, was the beautiful Santa Prisca Catholic church that has been the religious anchor in this silver town of 90,000 people for over 250 years.

The wedding ceremony for Gabriel's daughter was held in the incredibly ornate Santa Prisca with gold leaf baroque figurines covering all walls from floor to ceiling. The setting was impressive to say the least. It is a lovely ornate church. I had never attended a Mexican wedding let alone one in a church I admired -with excitement I accepted the invitation.

I attended the ceremony and reception. I had visited and spent time sitting in Santa Prisca on a previous occasion and felt ready to visit it again to witness a wedding ceremony. As anticipated the ceremony in the church was a pleasure, after it was over we set off for the reception across the hilly town in white Volkswagen Beetle taxis. The reception was full of cultural surprises that delighted. In the end, however, for me it was still a wedding -between conversations I wrote this:

Weddings are boring. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Boring. Drudgery at its finest, they can be such dull affairs. People trapped in pointless conversation while others sit still in silence looking dead bored. Trapped here. Weddings -is there a good one? Painful social experience. Painful. They are necessary and one of those things man does and does and does. Like a bad invention or poor product the wedding is never improved upon or revised. An antiquated ritual.

Man effectively manages to improve his highly touted technologies with great rapidity in things like cars and computers, but the wedding party remains unchanged, outdated and horribly dull. I am held hostage at this event for appearances and the prospect of a warm meal. The things we endure for friends and a free meal.

Yes, I know it is the people that make the party and I must take my share of the responsibility for the dullness that ensued. Perhaps my mood was effected by a mild hangover, dehydration and that I was very hungry at the time.

A week later I was in the same grand setting of Santa Prisca in the early evening to listen to a classic guitarist perform. Maestro Atsumas Nakabayashi, a master of the instrument filled the hall with beautiful sounds that gently filled the gold chamber. I thought, David, you can live anywhere in this world -anywhere. There is culture everywhere. The church was impressive on its own, to have attended a solo concert and a wedding in it was memorable.

David
Danli, Honduras

Dispatch Number 24 -Nineteen Times

Jesus is everywhere and no more so than in Latin America. When in Mexico I was surprised at the use of near life size dolls in the catholic churches placed above the pulpit for all to focus on, usually of Jesus nailed to something and bleeding steadily. They are dolls of realism, detailed faces of pain with copious amounts of blood in case you did not know the suffering story we are told of the catholic martyr. Unaccustomed to seeing such gore in their churches an Americans first response is to offer first aid upon seeing Jesus in countries like Mexico and Guatemala.

In Guatemala, they like their Jesus prostrate and bleeding too, but the Guatemalan catholic church takes dolls to a new level with them dressed in various forms of ceremonial dress and colorful regalia -these dolls adorn both sides of the main building residing in alcoves and large recessed glass cases, each with a steel coin box for donations. Unprovable, but this traveler suspects church collections are the second oldest profession.

Churches are an interesting place to observe the people of a community and a probe of its relative and historical wealth. For most part it is a religious center and for a few including myself, a non believer, a place of respite from the noise of the city, the rain, the heat and the shoeshine boys. The church is a place where the air is tranquil -in these things I believe. On watching the class that pray, the ones who rely on prayer, I cannot help but notice that as a people they tend to pray for things they don't have: health, money and good husbands.

From the bench I sit on I can see Jesus in various forms: stabbed to a tree trunk, nailed to a cross, another of him holding a tall staff looking set to lead a procession. Others are of him laying flat in death. There are many other representations of various saints. I do not use the word statue because statues are art forms that leave something to the imagination for they are incomplete in some way. Dolls are detailed objects intended to be life like.

Unlike the understated drab catholic churches in North America those in Latin America display an unusual level of violence demonstrated through realism of Jesus at his death repleat with scaped knees, running blood, big nails and brusing. In Mexico and Guatemala the relationship with death is different than from where I come from. They have a level of comfort that stands in contrast to how North Americans deal with death and suffering.

I donate money each time I visit a church for the pleasure of visiting them, sitting still and watching the people; this time to my pleasure I deposited my money beneath a black Jesus. At the church in Coban, Guatemala if you paid homage to every doll saint and Jesus you would do the sign of the cross 19 times.

Travel Update-
I am on the Caribbean coast of Honduras, slightly east of La Miskito of the same famed Mosquito Coast and where most of your bananas come from. I will attempt what looks and is being reported as a vicious overland journey from the Caribbean coast to a remote border crossing into Nicaragua close to the Pacific Ocean. All dirt, all slow. On these kinds of nasty roads it is surprising how superstitious the driver becomes with the vehicle -in this case I hope Azuita appreciates the oil change I gave her the other week. You can go anywhere, you can do anything, if you are not in a hurry.

David
Trujillo, Honduras

Dispatch Number 23 -Hippies

I bumped into the first hippies I had seen in a long time, the hand-to-mouth kind cobbling it together to keep on traveling one city at a time. It was a tall juggler and a very good looking couple who were making and selling those stereotypical bracelets that I have seen peddled everywhere by foreigners in Mexico and Guatemala. It is a dull repetitive affair of multicolor thread bracelets that many wear today -an art form with little distinction that the artisans create with pride. Copy art produced by many. For those hippies who love traveling on a shoe-string they manage to eke out a living in this sidewalk trade.

Their art does little for me, where they do garner my respect is that they do actually travel hand-in-mouth earning money on a daily basis so they can continue to travel. Whereas, I travel with a checkbook. It is different and I recognize it. What they do is gutsy for tomorrow is unknown.

In the more bohemian of towns in Latin America these kind of hippies gather in small groups often in stereotypical fashion with the juggler, the artisans, the drunks and dopers, fire dancers and hacky sack players. In the main park in Coban the juggler sits idle (this looks very painful to him) and the artisans keep making bracelets.

Often they blend into the sidewalk life wherever they habituate, except in Coban they hold court with 20-30 Guatemalans surrounding them to watch another bracelet being made one string at a time. The juggler has not started his show yet and sits on a park bench fidgeting nervously with a plastic ball that looks designed to keep him in top juggler shape. Feeling ignored and envious of the crowd that had gathered around the artisans he wants to rush into action -like a well trained dog waiting for a command. His pensive darting eyes scan the park waiting...picking his moment. The juggling sticks look like they may leap from his knapsack on their own.

Usually, these kind of traveling hippies blend into the cityscape along the sidewalks and under park trees, however, here they remain a curiosity to the Guatemalans who gather around to watch a thread being strung. As the crowd grew it took me back to my Japan days where some foreigners made a big deal out of being white and different in homogenized Japan and the intellectuals of the same group called them big fish in a small pond. The artisans played it good with 60 eyeballs watching every thread, they looked cool, but one could see they basked and glowed in the silent attention.

David
La Ceiba, Honduras

Dispatch Number 22 -La Coleta

I sit with a glass of tequila in the front row under cover of shade, late afternoon sun showers the grounds. It is small and intimate -from where I sit I am right in it, and could not be happier. Let's see how I hold up watching the act itself. There are two concentric circles of thick chalk matching the shape of the grounds. Hard packed sand has been groomed smooth and level. I am at Plaza de Toros, the "La Coleta" in San Cristobal de la Casas in the southern reaches of Mexico -the bull fights.

Two days earlier I saw a poster promoting the Easter Sunday event and knew I would attend. The blood, the spectacle, the ritual. Now I sit in the ring. I see a white face or two but find myself surrounded by Mexicans and this pleases me, no distractions to listen to, no English speakers to openly howl in shock and disgust, at least those that bring their cultural bias to foreign lands. Judgement of a ritual not theirs. Mexicans are fun at public events like these, I thoroughly enjoyed the professional boxing title fight I attended in Baja California.

Here at the La Coleta there is a thick wood boundary that is the same color as San Francisco's Golden Gate Bridge. Every bull that has entered the arena has scared the freshly painted wood with its horns, usually right after it is released into the arena, the sound is horrendous and is a show of ferocity. The bull fighters are more commonly referred to as Toreros than Matadores. Each Torero has a cuadrilla, "entourage" of six men that perform different tasks which I will spare you here (there is a concise write up on "wikipedia"). From my spot I watched a member of the entourage sharpen the sword used to deliver the final death blow to the bull known as "estocada", where the sword enters at the shoulder blades and through the aorta or heart.

It will be a duel between six bulls ranging from 460kg to 600kg (1,012 lbs- 1,320 lbs) and three Toreros. Sumidero at 485kg did not have much fight in him, where Monte Bello at 518kg was a clever and hearty fighter who died 15 feet from me. I could see the eyes of the Torero with all the expression and emotion. It was after this I knew I could sit and appreciate the ritual of bull fighting. I arrived without preconception. I did not bring my cultural bias with me -I accepted the ritual as it was and did not try to "figure" out the various aspects or apply my Western logic to it. I came to see-live-hear and feel Mexico.

An excellent fight brings the crowd to their feet waving thousands of white handkerchiefs as a sign of respect for a Torero's performance, it is also intended to influence the single judge presiding over the fight to wave his white handkerchief as well -it is the highest honor that can be given to the fighter. On this day the crowd is intense and the judge endures a great deal of jeering including some from the Torero himself who has an orchestral command of the crowd at that moment. The moment is fraught with tension until the judge makes his decision.

A single handkerchief earns one ear, which is sliced off the bull in the ring where it fell dead. For an excellent fight both ears come off indicated by two handkerchiefs. During the ovation the Torero is presented the still warm ear or ears, he then makes a show of the ears by presenting them to someone in the crowd. Having anything presented to you by the Torero is an honor, it is intentional and not haphazard.

During the ovation the matador walks the entire ring and the fans throw personal effects at his feet which he briefly holds or wears. People throw everything into the ring: hats, wine bags, seat cushions, shoes and all are thrown back to the owner by the Torero. If it is the Toreo's last fight he drinks from the wine bag filled with tequila or red wine. It is an intimate affair.

Bull fighting is an act of ballet between man and beast both will kill if given the opportunity, and one such opportunity came to a particularly clever bull. Much to my pleasure a bull drew blood and injury from both a bull fighter AND one of his assistants. The assistant was gored in the thigh when he was trying to place his pair of darts into the shoulders of the bull. The bull went on to deliver the exact same injury to the Torero. I watched several bulls die up to this point and it felt like justice, a balancing of sorts to keep the tormentors honest. The assistant managed to limp off under his own power, whereas the bull fighter had to be carried out by his cuadrilla like a man being carried off the battlefield.

Unsure who said it, probably Hemingway, that bull fighting was a place to study death and motion. It certainly was.